CombatHogan's Heroes: Escape to Stalag 13
by Syl
Summary: Saunders, Doc and Caje escape from a POW transport train only to end up in Luft Stalag 13! Please take a moment to R & R.
1. Chapter 1

_**Summary**: Saunders, Doc and Caje escape from a POW transport train only to end up in Luft Stalag 13!_

**_Acknowledgement:_** _A heartfelt thanks to DocII for her generosity of time and random acts of patience--especially for the continuous repeats and re-dos. DocII was also instrumental in any of the medical jargon included. Any mistakes are entirely my own._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue." _

_**Disclaimer**: _**Combat!**_ and all related characters belong to ABC, Image Entertainment, and Disney; while _**Hogan's Heroes**_ and all related characters belong to Paramount, Viacom and others. This is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged._

**Copyright**: December 2005 **

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis** **

* * *

Date/Time: Unknown **

**Place: Unknown**

* * *

The continuous rocking motion sent lightning rods of pain shooting up his left side. Why was the ground moving, he wondered? No, not the ground. He was lying on something--something hard and unforgiving, like wood. Yes, he was lying on some kind of wooden floor. 

A floor that was moving.

At that moment, he heard the unmistakable shrill, lonesome wail of whistle. A train whistle. He smiled, proud of his powers of deductive reasoning. He was on a train. He frowned. A train?

A sudden, jostling movement sent a lancing pain up his left arm. Unable to bear it any longer, he let out an involuntary groan. Instantly, he felt a gentle touch on his forehead, accompanied by a soft, soothing voice.

"Caje? Caje, are you with me, buddy?"

Doc.

Caje wanted to smile, but the strain was too much. Instead, he succumbed yet again to the blessed darkness that quickly enveloped him.

**

* * *

Friday 4 AUG 1944/0900hrs local **

**Somewhere in Germany**

* * *

"Doc? How's he doing?" Saunders knelt next to the medic, his expression worried. A once-white bandage was wound round his forehead, a large tell-tale brown spot denoting dried blood on the left temple. However, it was not the bandage on his head that was wearing him down, but the three stripes on his sleeves. At the moment, they were eating away at his conscience. 

Doc shook his head. "He needs a hospital, Sarge. The head wound isn't serious, but all this--!" He waved his arm, taking in the filthy and crowded conditions of the troop transport. "--It can't be good for him. And that shoulder wound still has me worried. You know he lost a lot of blood before we were captured. And remember what that German doctor said, before--" His voice trailed off and he gave a tired, self-defeated shrug.

Saunders nodded, recalling the ordeal prior to and following their capture. Had it really been less than a week ago? He wondered.

"Can you do anything for him?" Saunders asked more to assuage his own guilt than because he thought there was any chance that Doc might be able to do anything.

As expected, Doc shook his head. "The Krauts took my medical kit when they captured us. And I already gave him the last of the morphine." He paused remembering the German doctor who had tried to help by sneaking him a few medical supplies before they were transported to the train depot. "I don't have anything left, Sarge."

Hiding his disappointment, Saunders glanced around the railcar that they were all packed into. It was little more than a cattle car, with wooden slats along the sides, filthy straw on the wooden floor, and soldiers with barely enough room to sit shoulder to shoulder, let alone stretch out comfortably.

The little water the guards had allowed them was being strictly rationed, all agreeing that Doc should save it for Caje. At least, the Allied prisoners were still acting like soldiers.

Saunders nodded his understanding. "Do what you can for him." Rising to his feet, the sergeant returned to the midst of activity in the crowded railcar, jostling among the tightly packed bodies.

It had been his idea after all. The whole thing, that is. This...and, well, everything else...

**

* * *

Sunday 30 JUL 1944/1230hrs local ****Outside Ville-Orne, France**

* * *

Lieutenant Hanley slammed the handset down into its pocket. Pushing his helmet down further on his head, he grabbed his carbine and stood. His field CP was set up in a bomb crater next to a crumbling wall that had once been a farmhouse. Scanning the area immediately to his right, Hanley's eyes settled on Sergeant Saunders, the first squad leader. He signaled him to come over. 

Nodding, Saunders automatically checked the terrain around him for any signs of the enemy, and looking grim, scrambled the few yards distance toward his platoon leader. The veteran NCO, grimy from several days fighting and sporting a three-day old stubble, slid into the bomb crater, nearly slamming into Hanley.

Giving the officer a wry look, Saunders quipped, "You rang?"

Grimacing, Hanley indicated the field phone. "That was S-2. They've received reports that the Krauts are getting ready to launch an artillery barrage into our general sector. We've been ordered to withdraw."

"Withdraw?" Saunders felt like protesting. He had just lost three men taking this one horse-cart, burnt-out village; plus, he still could not account for two other men. Now he was being ordered to withdraw and abandon them?

"Lieutenant, I'm missing Doc and Caje. Request permission to return to the village to look for them."

"Negative, Saunders!" Hanley snapped with a quick shake of his head. "You know I can't spare you. The platoon is at less than half-strength, and I need every man I've got!"

"But, sir--!"

"You have my answer, Sergeant! Now pass the word to the rest of the squads--we move out in five minutes!"

Stiffening at the rebuff, Saunders saluted, a bit sharper than he usually did. Wordlessly, he spun on his heal and would have stomped off, except he first had to climb up the slippery sides of the crater in order to move out.

Hanley sighed. He hated to deny his best sergeant and good friend the opportunity to find his men, but he had the safety of the entire platoon to consider.

Then again...? Hanley's conscience refused to let go. The missing men were as much his responsibility as they were Saunders'. To leave a man behind left a bad taste in his mouth. Unbidden, memories returned of the time he unknowingly left Saunders behind in a burning barn, the ordeal leaving Saunders' hands severely burned. Images of the sergeant's painfully blackened claws still haunted Hanley's guilt-ridden nightmares.

No! Hanley would not be responsible for leaving any more men behind, at least not without first verifying if they were dead or alive. Doc and Caje were good men, two of his best. Besides, he knew that if anyone could bring them home, it was Saunders. Or he would die trying.

This last thought sent a cold shiver through the platoon leader. At the idea of sending his friend to his possible death, Hanley almost changed his mind; however, straightening his shoulders, he gave himself a mental headshake and proceeded to find Saunders.

**

* * *

Sunday 30 JUL 1944/1315hrs local **

**Ville-Orne, France**

* * *

Moving at a fast pace, Saunders hugged what meager cover he could find along the debris-strewn alleyways and side streets, avoiding the town's main road. Although he made good time, Saunders did not sacrifice prudence. He approached each doorway cautiously, fully aware of the potential danger hidden behind it. 

Therefore, by the time he found his missing men, a whole hour had already passed. Saunders spotted Doc's distinct corpsman's helmet from across the street. Although battered and blackened with soot, the red crosses still managed to peek through, easily identifying him as a medic. At this particular time, he was bent over someone, his expression intense. Saunders took a quick glance around the area, decided that if the Germans were going to shell the place then they had all probably pulled out anyway, and sprinted across the street.

Doc looked up, startled by Saunders' sudden appearance.

"Sarge! You just scared me out of a month of Sundays!" Scowling, he returned to the task at hand, namely applying a pressure bandage onto a shoulder wound that was already bandaged. It had apparently started bleeding again.

Intense blue eyes scrutinized the wounded man--Caje--taking in the beads of perspiration on his forehead and upper lip. Saunders observed the pinched cheeks and pale complexion, an indication of his obvious pain. Hands steady, he lit a cigarette and placed it between Caje's grateful lips.

"How is he?" Saunders asked.

Doc shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. About to reply, Caje beat him to the punch.

"I'm okay, Sarge," he said stoically. "Just a shoulder wound."

"The heck you're okay!" Doc snapped. The next moment he relented. "I've finally managed to stop the bleeding, Sarge, but it was pretty bad there for a while." He took out a morphine ampoule, but Caje immediately grabbed his wrist.

"No...no morphine," he gasped. "I won't be any good to you then."

"I hate to be the one to break the news to you, Caje," Doc snapped, "but you're not much good to us right now! Now, you've lost a lot of blood and--!"

Caje shook his head, struggling to get to his feet. "No morphine...! Can't walk...if I'm knocked out--!" Exhausted, he slumped back. He was not going anywhere on his own.

Doc turned worried eyes to Saunders. "Sarge, the sooner we get Caje to battalion aid the better."

Saunders nodded. "Then let's get going. The Krauts are launching an artillery barrage in another few minutes. The more distance we put between us and this village--"

"Can't be soon enough for me," Caje mumbled. At his words, Saunders and Doc exchanged an amused glance.

"Hey, now," Doc said gently, his soft southern drawl soothing. "Whatever happened to that Errol Flynn bravado I heard earlier?"

In answer, Caje grumbled some choice words in his native Louisiana bayou French. Saunders actually smiled.

"Come on, hero," he said, "we've got a war to get back to."

Helping him to his feet, Saunders and Doc each took a position on either side of the dark Cajun. However, try as he might, Caje was unable to move fast enough for the three men to outrun the anticipated barrage. Before they reached the edge of the abandoned village, the deadly rain of destruction began falling on them. Saunders immediately redirected Doc and Caje to the nearest basement he could find.

Practically carrying Caje between the two of them, Saunders and Doc ran toward a ruined café. Saunders kicked what remained of the door off its hinges. By then, Caje was no longer even attempting to walk, his legs dragging behind him. He was unconscious. Saunders paused long enough to toss Caje across his shoulders in a fireman's carry and yelled at Doc to go ahead.

"Go on! We're right behind you!" The words were barely out of Saunders' mouth when a loud explosion resounded immediately outside the building, its shockwave sending Saunders to his knees. Doc was instantly at his side, helping him up, steering him and his burden toward the cellar entrance.

They stumbled down the darkened stairs, their sense of urgency not allowing them time for caution. With only a few steps to go, the stairs below them suddenly gave way and all three went tumbling down in a tangled heap.

"Doc? You okay?" Saunders called worriedly. His eyes squinted in the deep gloom, trying to find his friends.

"I'm fine," Doc answered, his voice coming from behind and slightly to Saunders' right. "I'm not sure about Caje, though." He paused slightly. "He broke my fall." Silence followed.

"Doc?" Saunders spoke after a few moments.

"He's started bleeding again, Sarge." Doc sounded tired. "Can you give me a light? I can't see a darned thing here."

At his words, Doc heard the sound of a lighter being flicked. The next instant, a small flame was being held in front of him. He smiled across the bright glow at Saunders, the grateful look in his eyes slowly fading. His young squad leader's soot-smudged, bearded face made him look like as if he had aged ten years in the past three days. Wordlessly, Doc gave Saunders a quick nod of thanks and turned back to Caje.

They remained in the dank cellar for almost three hours, the café's solid mason walls protecting them from the worst of the flying shrapnel. At long last, the barrage took on a different tone.

"Listen!" Saunders hissed.

Doc turned to Saunders' voice and shook his head, not understanding. Realizing that Saunders could probably not see him, he said, "I don't hear anything, Sarge. I mean, besides those rounds falling on top of us."

"That's **_it_**, Doc." A different voice had spoken up--Caje! He had regained consciousness sometime in the last few minutes. "The barrage is beginning to slow down." His voice trailed off, and Doc was instantly at his side, checking his bandages.

"Caje's right," Saunders said calmly. "The interval between the rounds is growing longer." He paused, and then asked the question that needed to be asked. "How is he, Doc?"

"As well as can be expected, I guess." Doc sighed. There was so little he could do, really. As a combat medic his job was to patch up the wounded so that they would survive the trip back to the aid station. There, the doctors and nurses would hopefully perform their miracles and manage to save more than they lost.

Those who survived might live to fight another day. And, yes, perhaps not be quite so lucky the next time around and maybe end up dead. Doc shook his head. Sometimes it was just better not to think about all the possibilities. His primary task was to ensure that Caje was stabilized sufficiently to make it back their lines. He had done that.

But now?

They had wasted three hours sitting out the artillery barrage. In that time, Caje had reopened his wound, and he had lost even more blood--blood that he could ill afford to lose. Plus, with the barrage coming to an end, the enemy would be advancing soon. At this rate, it would indeed take an act of God to get him home, period. About all Doc could do now was pray.

"I'll live, Sarge," Caje said wryly.

"I'm glad to hear that, soldier," Saunders said softly. What he did not say spoke more eloquently than words. The quiet, steady Cajun was Saunders' right-hand man. The idea of having to replace him was something that the squad leader did not even wish to contemplate.

Instead, he considered their chances of making it back to their lines. The rest of the platoon had probably pulled out already. Hanley had mentioned that the entire 361st was falling back to a pre-positioned defensive line, codenamed 'Peter.' They would hold until their sister regiment, the 253rd, arrived to reinforce them. Then, while the 253rd moved forward along its line of advance, 'Hook,' the 361st would attack along 'Tinkerbell.'

Saunders almost grinned, thinking of the whimsical references to Peter Pan. Someone at S-2 was either a new father or a big kid at heart. Either way, the code names had given the battle-hardened veteran a good chuckle when Hanley had first briefed the squad leaders.

Shaking his head, Saunders thought about Caje. The injured man would not be able to keep up. A litter would be their best bet; however, before he had a chance to suggest rigging one, the bombardment finally ended. There was no time now. They had to get out of town fast before the enemy moved in.

"Let's go," he ordered.

Cautiously, they edged their way out of the basement, avoiding the broken stairs. Indicating that Doc and Caje stay inside while he checked the street for any signs of the enemy, Saunders stepped out into what was left of the street. Remains of buildings that had been standing before the shelling started were now so much rubble. Also, several bomb craters littered the street.

How the building they had been hiding in managed to survive the ordeal was beyond him. Saunders ran down to the end of the street, stopping long enough to check both approaches from the north. The Krauts would be advancing from that direction. It was all clear.

He waited a moment longer, not completely satisfied. Both approaches remained quiet, with no sign of any movement. Seeing little more that he could do, Saunders ran back to the café. He saw Doc waiting by the ruined entrance, and taking one last cursory glance around the demolished village, Saunders gave him the all clear.

Intending to give his men cover while they started their trek to the edge of town, Saunders immediately shouldered his weapon when he saw that Caje was leaning too heavily on Doc, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. He hurried back to give them a hand, and had just taken hold of Caje's waist, when a German patrol spotted them.

Shouts of "_Hande hoch_!" were accompanied by several warning shots.

"Go!" Saunders shouted, urging Doc and Caje back into the café, while he gave covering fire. As the Americans hurriedly turned back, a Schmeisser on full automatic opened up, ripping a staccato track of bullet holes on the building's masonry wall behind them. The three men froze.

Outnumbered and outgunned, Saunders had little choice but to surrender. They were quickly surrounded, disarmed and efficiently searched, stripped of their helmets, web belts, and any other items that the German squad leader deemed as dangerous. Even Doc's medical kit was taken.

"Hey! Wait just a darn minute!" Doc protested. "I have a wounded man here!"

The Kraut sergeant walked up to Doc, and without warning, struck him across the face. Saunders made a move to lunge at him, but stopped suddenly when the twin muzzles of two Mausers were aimed directly at him.

"I suggest you stay where you are, Sergeant," the German NCO said, in precisely clipped English. "Of the three prisoners, you are the most valuable. I would not wish to kill you."

Unexpectedly, Caje dove at the enemy sergeant, slamming headfirst into him, taking all the Germans by surprise. Saunders immediately swung around, grabbing the weapon of the enemy soldier behind him. Using a judo move he had learned in basic training and mastered after two years of fighting on the front, Saunders threw the soldier over his head, slamming him onto the second man that had been guarding him.

Doc, although technically a noncombatant, was not standing still. He 'accidentally' stumbled against the soldier who had been tasked to guard him.

The young private shot him an annoyed glare and growled "**_Los_**!" in his best, most threatening manner. He could not have been much over sixteen, and under any other given set of circumstances, Doc might have laughed. However, this was no laughing matter.

"Sorry, kid," Doc mumbled. "I-I guess, I ain't feeling too good." Wrapping his arms around his waist, Doc groaned as if in great pain. "Must be something I ate--" His eyes rolling up in his sockets, Doc looked like he was about to fall over in a faint.

The German private took a tentative step toward him. "_Was ist los_?"

Almost hating himself for taking advantage of a mere boy, Doc appeared as if he were fighting to keep his balance. Suddenly keeling over, the combat medic somehow managed to get his feet entangled with the young Kraut's. Startled, the confused private let out a surprised yell and fell over backwards, Doc landing on top of him.

As the two struggled to untangle themselves--Doc being of little help and only making matters worse--Saunders was having his own problems. Spinning round, he kicked out, connecting with the chin of one of his opponents. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw another Kraut come up behind Caje, the butt of his rifle raised in order to strike the already wounded man.

"Caje!" Saunders cried out in warning. Too late! Just as he saw the Cajun go down like a rag doll, he glimpsed a shadow move up behind him. Before he had a chance to react, the world exploded in a kaleidoscope of colors.

**

* * *

Monday 31 JUL 1944/1100hrs local **

**Ville-Orne, France**

**58th Panzer Grenadiers Regiment Field Hospital**

* * *

The pungent smell of antiseptic told him he was in a hospital. A sudden wave of relief washed over him. Somehow, they must have made it back to their own lines. Feeling the darkness of unconsciousness beckoning, he fought it with grim determination. 

Slowly, the total blackout that surrounded him began to lift, until at last, his eyes opened a mere slit. He cringed against the muted lighting in the hospital, its soft glow too much for him; however, calling forth his legendary iron discipline, he was finally able to bear it enough to open his eyes completely.

"How're you feeling, Sarge?" Doc asked. He gave Saunders a sympathetic smile slightly mixed with relief.

In answer, Saunders started bringing his hand up to his left temple, but Doc grabbed his wrist.

"I wouldn't do that," he said with an emphatic shake of the head.

Saunders glared at him for a moment, then slowly nodded and lowered his arm. "I feel like a tank rolled over me." Swallowing, he added, "But I guess I'll be okay?" This last came out as a question rather than a statement.

Doc chuckled. "Yeah, but I wouldn't place any bets on that Kraut's rifle butt. It's probably never come in contact with anything as hard as your head before."

Saunders' answering smile was too fleeting, not quite reaching his eyes. "Caje?"

"He's gonna make it. He came out of surgery a few hours ago. He's still in recovery."

"Surgery?"

Doc nodded. "Yeah...remember how I was having trouble stopping the bleeding?" At Saunders' nod, he continued, "The doctor said that the bullet had nicked the--" He paused, his face scrunched in concentration. "--the subclavian artery." He gave Saunders a rueful look. "Well, it was pretty bad, but in a way Caje got lucky."

"How's that?"

"See, because the bullet was still lodged in his shoulder, it occluded the artery--"

"It **_what_** the artery?" Saunders' asked, his tone impatient.

Doc chuckled. "'Occluded'--as in the bullet basically helped close the artery and stopped the bleeding. That is, until something happened to move it, then the bleeding started all over again." He gave Saunders a relieved grin. "Ol' Caje'll be as good as new. Just wait and see."

"That's right, Sergeant," a new voice said. "Your friend will be as good as new."

Saunders looked up at the newcomer who had just stepped in through the curtain of bed sheets that surrounded his cot. Funny, until that moment, Saunders had not noticed that he was isolated from the rest of the ward. These thoughts and others flashed through his mind in a heartbeat as, Saunders bolted upright, throwing off the covers.

A Kraut officer? In the hospital?

"Doc!" He shouted in warning and jumped to his feet. However, that was as far he got, because the floor inexplicably moved under him. Or was it that his legs simply gave out? Before Saunders knew what was happening, Doc and the Kraut officer were both gently returning him to his cot.

"Take it easy, Sarge," Doc said soothingly. "This is the doctor I was telling you about--Captain Engel."

Saunders looked from Doc to the German doctor, piercing blue eyes taking in the situation. "You mean...we're in a **_German_** field hospital?"

Doc nodded. "I'm afraid so, Sarge."

Engel gave Saunders a look that was not without compassion. "I am very sorry, Sergeant, but I am afraid that you and your men are prisoners of war. However, I give you my solemn promise that as long as you are my patients, you will receive the best possible medical care that I can provide." He nodded toward Doc. "Your medic is quite skilled and has been very useful in the short time that you have been here." He took a step closer and lowered his voice. "I will try to keep you both here until--" He paused, glancing at the chart he was holding in his hand. "--Private LeMay has recovered sufficiently to be transported." He looked up. "That should be in another two to three days."

Saunders glared suspiciously at the doctor. "And why should you be such a pal, Doctor?"

Engel stiffened slightly at the American's insolent tone, but raised his chin slightly and held Saunders' gaze.

"Whatever you might have heard, Sergeant, we are all not the monsters your propaganda machine has painted us to be. Some of us...many of us--" He stopped, giving Saunders a long look. Finally, he said simply, "I am a doctor. I took an oath."

"Sarge, he's telling the truth," Doc interjected. "I seen him work. He's a good doctor." However, Saunders' eyes did not lessen any of their fierceness.

Sighing, Engel gave Doc a helpless shrug and turned to go. "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I have other patients."

As soon as Engel was gone, Doc turned to Saunders. "Sarge...I'm telling you, he's okay. And like he said, he's a doctor...he took an oath to help the sick."

Saunders ran a hand through his thick, blond hair--a familiar mannerism that was as much a part of him as his distinctive camouflage helmet--and closed his eyes tiredly. "Doc, that uniform Captain Engel wears tells me he took a different kind of oath, too."

Before Doc could respond, Saunders brought his arm over his eyes--yet, another well-known 'Saunders-ism,' warning all who approached to stay away--and settled deeper into his blanket. Hearing Doc move away, Saunders wondered if perhaps he **_was_** being a little too suspicious.

As he allowed sleep to claim him, Saunders' last thoughts were of Mom and the chicken soup she used to ladle into him whenever he got sick.

**

* * *

Wednesday 2 AUG 1944/0530 hrs local **

**Ville-Orne, France**

**58th Panzer Grenadiers Regiment Field Hospital**

* * *

Two days later, Saunders and Doc stood frozen, listening to the angry shouts coming from the other side of their curtained-off cubicle. Caje was lying in the cot next to Saunders'. He had been moved there soon after the doctor had spoken with the NCO. Since then, the lead scout had been conscious for less than an hour altogether. As expected, he was sleeping soundly at the moment, oblivious to the disturbance going on directly beyond the curtains. 

Saunders drew back the divider sheets, just enough to investigate the trouble without being spotted. He sucked in a breath--Gestapo agents! From his vantage point, he could just spot Captain Engel standing at the far end of the ward. The hospital staff--a single duty nurse and two medics--was frozen in place, not daring to do anything that might call attention to them.

Saunders could not understand what Engel or the Gestapo officer were saying to one another, but by Engel's excited tone, Saunders could tell that he was highly agitated. On the other hand, the Gestapo agent appeared to be too calm, almost to the point of smugness, as if he were enjoying himself immensely.

Meanwhile, Engel struggled to remain outwardly calm, but Saunders saw that it was a losing battle. The Gestapo agents' presence had the doctor deeply troubled, and he would not get over his fear until the agents left. Saunders realized that whatever else happened, sooner or later, the Gestapo agents would be trouble for him and his men. Of that, he knew he could be sure.

* * *

"Major, I must protest!" Engel stood stiffly as the Gestapo officer, Major Wulf, strutted up and down the aisle between the two long rows of beds. Engel glanced nervously at the team of agents who were even now rifling through his patients' records. "This is a hospital! These men are wounded--!" 

"Yes, Doctor." Wulf spoke silkily. "But perhaps some are not quite as wounded as the others?"

Engel shot him a look of frustration. "Major, that is a ridiculous statement! And **_this_**--? **_This_** is outrageous! I am filing a formal protest with the Inspector General. You overstep your bounds--!"

Wulf swung on him, his dark eyes flashing. Somehow, combined with his black hair and dark complexion, he did indeed resemble his namesake, the wolf.

"I warn you, Doctor." Wulf's soft, dulcet tones seemed somehow all the deadlier. He pointed at the Swastika on his right sleeve. "This gives me all the authority I need. The front needs soldiers. Malingerers will be appropriately dealt with, and then they will be shipped to the Eastern Front."

At his words, one of his men who had been inspecting patient records excitedly called him over. "_Herr Major! Kommen sie hier_!"

Wulf gave Engel a look of triumph and headed over to the medical files, Engel hot on his heels.

"What do you have for me, Private Saenger?" Wulf asked.

Fired up, Private Saenger handed Wulf the hospital's morning report. "_Drei Amerikanerinnen_!"

Wulf snatched the report from the private's hand. "**_Was ist_**--!" he murmured, surprised at the unexpected turn of events. Abruptly, he waved the document at Engel and made no pretense at keeping his voice down. "What is the **_meaning_** of this!"

Engel recoiled slightly at the harsh tone. Glancing up, he noted ruefully that the oil lanterns that hung from the ceiling were actually shaking.

"You dared mix American prisoners of war among the sacred wounded of the Fatherland?"

Swallowing, Engel nodded. Speaking rapidly, he stumbled over his words. "Th-they were wounded, Major. N-Naturally, according to the Geneva Convention--!"

"**_Silence_**!" Wulf shouted. "If they are wounded, then they will be treated by the POW camp physicians. Saenger! Round up these prisoners! They shall be placed on the next transport to Nuremberg!"

"Major! You cannot **_do_** this! These men are **_my_** patients, and I have not released them!"

Wulf calmly reached for his sidearm, and to Engel's alarm, steadily aimed it at him.

"Doctor, I am afraid that now it is **_you_** who are overstepping your bounds." He gave Engel a rapacious grin. "Would you care to accompany the Americans, Doctor? As a prisoner yourself?"

Swallowing nervously, all Engel could manage was a brief shake of the head.

* * *

Listening on the other side of the curtains, Saunders shot Doc a 'be ready' glare. Hurrying over to Caje's bedside, he stood helplessly by as the Gestapo agents tore through the flimsy fabric, shouting angrily while they waved their machine pistols at the three Americans. 

Using the Schmeisser as a motivator, one of the enemy agents indicated that Saunders and Doc should grab Caje and lift him off the bed.

"Now just a doggone minute--!" Doc protested.

"Doc!" Saunders shouted.

But, Doc continued unabated. "--That man's in no condition to travel!"

"Then he dies here," Wulf replied with a shrug. He waved casually at one of his men, but Saunders jumped directly in front of the weapon.

"Wait!" he shouted. "We'll do as you say!"

Admitting defeat, Doc nodded, surrendering to the inevitable. Spotting Engel who was watching powerlessly from the side, Doc gave him a look of angry betrayal as he turned to help Saunders lift Caje.

Engel dropped his eyes in shame. These were his patients! At least, Saunders and LeMay were. The American medic while not injured, had been unofficially assigned to the hospital at Engel's request. The hospital was so understaffed that finding a competent medic was considered a providence--even if he was a prisoner of war.

Engel felt that he had to help them, but how? Wulf would shoot him with pleasure if he tried anything overt. Getting a sudden idea, Engel spun on his heel as if he were too disgusted by the scene to remain any longer, which was not too far from the truth. When he reached the nurse's station he called over the lone night nurse on duty. Nurse Dagmar was someone whom he could trust.

* * *

Dagmar listened intently while Engel, speaking in low undertones, quickly relayed what he wanted. Dagmar gave him a brief, frightened look, but she hastily nodded. Looking over his shoulder, she saw that the Gestapo major was happily harassing the Americans. Involuntarily, her eyes slid over to the blond sergeant. He could easily have passed for German, except for the language, of course. However, the brief smiles that they had exchanged needed no translation. 

Seeing his defiant stance as he faced down the Gestapo's machineguns and the sudden intensity behind his blue eyes that only yesterday had smiled so warmly at her, Dagmar felt her knees go weak. She told herself that it was only because he was apparently disregarding his own danger. However, she knew in her heart she would always regret that they had been on opposite sides during the war.

Tearing her eyes from the potential violence being played out, she hurried to do as Dr. Engel had requested. She thought about Wulf and his men, hoping that she would not be too late to help Saunders. Ducking into the field hospital's small storage closet, she took a moment to look around for the supplies she needed.

Feeling a small, disheartened stab, Dagmar realized just how low their medical supplies had fallen. It seemed that lately--ever since the Allied landings in France--shortages had become the rule instead of the exception. Sighing, she hastily grabbed a few articles: two ampoules of morphine, a fresh roll of bandages, some sulfa powder and aspirin. Then, seeing how dangerously low their supply of morphine had dropped, she regrettably returned one of the vials to its place.

"I am sorry, my dear sergeant," she said softly, "but our own wounded need it, too."

End of Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

_**Summary**: Saunders, Doc and Caje escape from a POW transport train only to be captured again!_

**_Acknowledgement:_** _A heartfelt thanks to DocII for her generosity of time and random acts of patience--especially for the continuous repeats and re-dos. DocII was also instrumental in any of the medical jargon included. Any mistakes are entirely my own._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue." _

_**Disclaimer**: _**Combat!**_ and all related characters belong to ABC, Image Entertainment, and Disney; while _**Hogan's Heroes**_ and all related characters belong to Paramount, Viacom and others. This is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Constructive feedback--the positive and negative kind--is welcome and encouraged._

**Copyright**: December 2005

**

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Friday 4 AUG 1944/1800hrs local**

**Somewhere in Bavaria**

* * *

Saunders stood watch over the group of soldiers who were working diligently on the flooring of the railcar. This was an old freight car, not designed for the transportation of personnel. It still permeated with several years' accumulated stink of livestock. It seemed that the Allied air forces not only controlled the air, but also once the fighter planes' escort missions were completed, they had standing orders to seek 'targets of opportunity' on the ground.

Apparently, the Allied fighter pilots loved 'seeking out' the Third Reich's railroads; therefore, several of their freight trains had been destroyed in the last few weeks--along with their troop transports. As a result, Saunders and his fellow prisoners were being shipped in less than optimal conditions. However, shortly after the train had started on its long trek east, Saunders surmised that the current situation could work to their advantage--but only time would tell.

Leaning against the side of the railcar, Saunders thought about the past few days. As he, Doc, and Caje were about to be taken from the hospital, the night nurse--the pretty one with the soft brown eyes and cute nose--surreptitiously slipped him a small packet. She hissed something in his ear that he did not understand, but the desperate look in her lovely eyes spoke volumes.

Saunders took the package from her and hid it inside his field jacket. Only after they were loaded onto the back of a transport truck and were halfway to their debarkation point did he take a furtive look at its contents--medical supplies.

An hour later, the truck pulled into a railroad station, and the Gestapo handed them over to an SS military police unit. Apparently, the SS and not the Wehrmacht were in charge of this particular prisoner of war train. The thought made Saunders uneasy, as he had seen what the SS were capable of doing. Although he tried to keep his misgivings to himself, one look at Doc told him that the medic had the same reservations.

They had been traveling for almost two days now. So far, they had stopped only twice for food and water. The first time they had pulled into a train depot in a small village just on the other side of the French/Belgium border. There, the Allied prisoners had been fed--one slice of bread per man and a single ladling of cabbage soup, so weak that it had been little more than warm water, and not very nourishing.

The second stop had been about twenty-four hours ago. By then, the men were suffering from thirst, and a few were starting to succumb to the heat and intolerable conditions. Caje especially since he had not fully recovered from his wounds and surgery when he had been placed in the same railcar as Saunders and Doc. At the depot, Doc protested the lack of sufficient water to the sergeant-of-the-guard, but his words fell on deaf ears.

_Raus! Raus!"_ The impassive guards had been more intent on pushing them into a ragtag semblance of a troop formation than listening to any complaints.

When an officer walked down the line inspecting the POWs, a Canadian corporal stepped out of formation and requested permission to speak. He was immediately struck on the back of the head with a rifle butt. As a result, Saunders grabbed Doc by the arm and shot him a look of warning, stopping the dedicated medic before he tried to help the injured man. Sensibly, Doc nodded in understanding.

This was not the time--yet.

Later that day, as the men waited to be served chow, Saunders wove his way among the prisoners from his railcar, urging them to eat whatever they were given and drink what water they could. The soup, at least, was liquid and would help keep them hydrated. The single slice of bread would make their stomachs feel full.

Taking his rations, Saunders sat down next to Dickinson, a British RAF corporal who was assigned to his group. Saunders spoke out of the side of his mouth, never looking directly at the corporal.

"Did you scope out the security on the train?" he asked.

Taking a spoonful of his cabbage soup, Dickinson grimaced and swallowed before nodding in response. "Sure did, mate. And a bad hand we've been dealt."

"How so?"

"Besides the guards sitting on top of each roof--" He let his eyes roam toward the alert guards perched on the roofs of each car. All were armed with machine pistols. "--We have a pair of guards in the rear car, standing on the outside railing."

"Anything else?" Saunders asked.

Dickinson snorted. "What else do you need, Yank?" Without actually facing Saunders, he could feel the American's irritation. "All right already, Yank...don't get your knickers in a twist." He shook his head. "The engine has an armed guard riding shotgun twenty-four/seven."

The RAF corporal took a spoonful of soup and swallowed. "I can't be sure, of course, but I think the engine guard only gets switched out when we come to a stop--like now." Dickinson thought for a moment. "Come to think of it, I noticed that the same guards who were positioned on the rooftops at the last stop were still there when we pulled in here."

Saunders nodded. "That could be of help to us."

"How's that?" Dickinson asked curiously.

"If you were perched up there all night with little chance of anyone checking on you, would you stay alert for the several hours between stops?"

Dickinson shook his head, and then had a sudden grim thought. "Saunders, it's been almost twenty-four hours since our last stop. You don't think--? I mean...not even the Krauts would leave those poor blokes up there for that long?"

"Probably not...but I'm willing to bet that they won't be changed at night. Too risky on a moving train."

Dickinson shuddered. "I think you're right. With the steep hills around this area, I wouldn't want to be walking around those roofs and risk taking a tumble."

Changing the subject, Saunders asked casually, "Dickinson, how fast do you think we've been traveling?"

Dickinson shrugged. "I don't know. Thirty...maybe forty kilometers per hour?"

Saunders nodded reflectively. "I suppose we'll slow down on the inclines?" It was more a statement than question, so Dickinson did not bother to answer. Instead, he merely nodded. "How far apart do you estimate those steel wheels are?" Saunders asked, his eyes looking directly at the train's iron wheels.

Dickinson shook his head. "Not sure...ten, maybe twelve feet apart?"

Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, Saunders stared impassively at the massive iron wheels. "Hmmm...? Ten to twelve feet--it could work." He smiled suddenly. "Uhm-hum...it just might work."

Without further explanation, Saunders nodded, rose casually to his feet, and returned to where he left Doc and Caje. He felt happy at the sight of the tired-looking Cajun gamely trying to eat some of the soup that Doc was insistently spooning into him.

Feeling inexplicably relieved to be back with his own men, Saunders took up a position next to them. This allowed him to study the train guards again, and unable to help himself, Saunders eyed their Schmeissers hungrily. If only he could get his hands on a few of those...

Twenty-four hours later, Saunders looked around the decrepit conditions inside the railcar and again thought of the guards' weapons. Disgusted at himself for obsessing over the impossible, he muttered, "If wishes were horses...as Mom would say."

Saunders shook his head. Those weapons might as well have been a million miles away for all the good thinking about them would do. No, if they were to succeed in escaping, they would have to rely solely on their wits and survival skills.

Having reached this conclusion, Saunders put the Schmeissers out of his mind and concentrated on the job at hand.

His thoughts returned to the previous stop twenty-four hours ago. Dickinson's scouting job had proven fruitful and given Saunders sufficient food for thought to occupy his waking thoughts for the past day. A plan was beginning to form in the back of his mind. Risky, but then any escape attempt came with a certain amount of risk. He shrugged.

Saunders' stomach suddenly growled. He couldn't remember when he had last felt this hungry. He thought of the bread and watery soup that probably awaited them at the next stop. Not much to look forward to, and it did not satisfy long enough to make a man forget about his hunger. Thankfully, they were even now pulling into the train depot.

Saunders checked out the situation from a small crack on the side of the boxcar. There was a line of heavily armed guards with dogs standing approximately five meters apart along the outer perimeter of the depot. In addition, he spotted three machineguns strategically placed on the roof and two windows overlooking the depot area.

"Heads up!" he called to the rest of the prisoners. "Put that stuff back!" He added, addressing the men in the middle of the railcar who were still working on the flooring. They quickly did as told. "This place is lousy with heavy security!"

Saunders quickly described the situation to the others. "Remember, follow orders! You need to keep up your strength, so eat whatever slop they give you. And do what they tell you without complaints. Whatever you're thinking about the Krauts--it's still not the time!" Saunders glared at the rows of upturned faces. "Got it?"

He received several "Yeah, Sarge!" and "We gotcha, Sarge!" and a few nods of the head in reply. Satisfied, he sought out Doc and Caje.

"Doc, you and Caje stay together the whole time. And Doc? Make sure he eats something." He gave Caje a long look. "How're you doing, buddy?"

Caje smiled weakly and nodded. "Like I told you back in the village, Sarge--I'll live."

Saunders gave him a brief smile. "I'm holding you to that, soldier." Giving Caje's arm a light pat, he added, "I want you to try to eat more than you did last time, Caje. You need to keep your strength up." At Caje's nod, Saunders stood. All he could do now was wait...

The sign over the depot entrance read 'Aschaffenburg.' From some of the map exercises he had participated in, Saunders knew that they were now in Bavaria in southeast Germany. He recalled Major Wulf stating that they were being placed on a POW train bound for Nuremberg also located in Bavaria. They were getting closer, he knew. If they were to get off the train before it arrived at its final destination, then they would have to make their move soon.

It would be dark by the time the train resumed its journey. Saunders hoped they would be ready by then.

"We'll have to be," he murmured...

* * *

Moving quietly around the train station among the huddled groups comprised of soldiers from several Allied nations, Saunders managed to exchange a few quick words with a US airman, a B-17 waist-gunner who had been shot down over a week ago. The US airman passed on a wild rumor that Saunders dismissed out of hand.

Apparently the members of the Eighth Air Force all 'knew' of an underground network supposedly operating out of the Germans' own Military District XIII, the same district to which the Nuremberg POW facility was assigned.

"Look, Sarge, I don't know all the details," the airman admitted, "but I'm telling you...I know of a crew chief who heard it from a tail gunner who got it straight from the radio operator of a B-17 that went down over Hamburg six months ago that if you get to 'Papa Bear,' then he'll find a way to return you home."

Saunders started to walk away, but the airman grabbed him by the sleeve and held him back.

"Sarge, wait!" he hissed. "Don't you want to hear the kicker?"

"Not really," Saunders growled with a shake of his head. He again tried to put some distance between himself and the delusional airman. But the waist gunner was not to be denied. Practically following Saunders at his heels, the airman continued his enthusiastic storytelling unabated.

"Sarge, the kicker is that Papa Bear supposedly operates in the general area of LuftStalag 13, under the very nose of the toughest POW camp commandant in all of Germany. The word is that there has never been a successful escape from Stalag 13, which is located outside the small town of Hammelburg." He shrugged. "I know it's a little hard to swallow, Sarge. But there's gotta be some grain of truth to the tales, don't you see?"

"No, I don't see." Saunders' tone took on some of its customary surliness. "And you shouldn't see any either."

"If there's no truth to the rumors, then why is it that after almost two years, the rumors about Papa Bear persist?"

"For the same reason that rumors of the Loch Ness monster persist," Saunders shot back.

By then, Corporal Dickinson had joined them in the middle of the American airman regaling Saunders with the 'known' exploits of the legendary Papa Bear--bridges blown, railway tunnels destroyed, German generals kidnapped, Allied flyers sent back to their own lines.

Saunders rolled his eyes. "You're describing some kind of fairytale hero. Guys who can do stuff like only exist in comic books."

However, Dickinson jumped in quickly and confirmed that he, too, had heard of 'Papa Bear.' In fact, he added that should he manage to escape, his aim was to try and find his way to the Hammelburg Underground and contact the elusive Papa Bear.

Two hours later, the train was chugging along the Main River valley. There was a full moon out, casting a silvery sheen upon the Bavarian countryside. To the right of the railroad tracks, the moonlit night exposed a sheer drop to the wide river below. From a crack on the side of the car, Saunders could see the moon's reflection on the dark water.

In the far distance, he could make out a darker mass that indicated the other side of the river. He shook his head. It was too wide for Caje to swim across.

To their left, the rocky walls of a steep hill glistened in the moonlight and disappeared into the darkness above. Feeling a sudden headache, Saunders pinched the bridge of his nose. Even if they managed to break through now, there was no place for them to go. Whatever happened, they would have to wait until the ground leveled off sufficiently for them to make a run for it.

He thought of his conversation with the B-17 waist-gunner and Dickinson. "'Papa Bear'!" he muttered. Who was next? Goldilocks?

"Hey, Yank!" Dickinson was gesturing to Saunders to join him.

"What is it?" Saunders asked.

The corporal pointed triumphantly at the floor of the train car.

Saunders looked at the spot where the corporal pointed. A fairly large hole, big enough for a man to drop through, gaped back at him.

**

* * *

Friday 4 AUG 1944/2300hrs local**

**Somewhere in Bavaria**

**Between the towns of Aschaffenburg and Wurzburg**

* * *

Saunders studied the opening on the floor. He looked at his watch, 2300 hours. Every hour brought them at least another fifty kilometers closer to their ultimate destination. It was now or never.

"Okay! Listen up!" Saunders had to yell in order to be heard over the excited voices of the Allied prisoners. "This is the deal. We're in a bad spot right now, but it could actually be working to our advantage. With the train having to slow down to go uphill it may make it all the easier for us to avoid the steel wheels when we roll across the tracks."

"What?"

"Roll across the tracks?"

"Are you out of your bloody mind, Yank?"

"Yeah, Sarge! Why don't we just lay low until the train passes over us?"

Saunders held his hands up for quiet. "That's enough!" he yelled. "We can't take a chance--!" he began but was interrupted.

"He's right, mates!" Dickinson broke in. "At each stop Sergeant Saunders and I studied the layout of the train guards. There are guards sitting on the roof of each railcar, facing forward. However, the last car has at least two guards standing outside on the rear railing." He let the words sink in.

"I guess that means that we would be easily spotted if we waited for the train to just pass over us, right, Corporal?" a young private asked.

His companion, another private, rolled his eyes. "That's what I like about you, Liebowitz. You have a genius for the obvious!"

Liebowitz smiled. "Gee, thanks, Johnson...you really think so?"

In answer, Johnson gave his friend a long-suffering smile and simply patted him on the back. "Just stick close to me, kid. I'll get you back to our lines."

"You mean Liebowitz' knowledge of German will get you back to our lines, Johnson." Another private had spoken up--Thompson, Saunders recalled. Crossing his arms in front, Thompson gave Johnson a wry look. "I think I'll tag along with you two, and keep you both out of trouble."

"That's fine by me, Tommy," Johnson said with a broad smile. "The more the merrier, I always say."

"Okay, that's enough!" Saunders snapped. "We'll go in twos and threes. Anymore and it'll be too hard for you to slip through the countryside undetected." He paused. "I don't need to remind you of what you're getting yourselves into. The war is going badly for the Krauts and our air forces have been pummeling their cities. There's no love lost between the Kraut civilians and our downed airmen--not to mention any escaped POWs. So don't expect any great humanitarian aid from the civilians."

Saunders glared at each man in turn.

He continued, "Travel at night whenever possible and lie low during the day. And unless you speak German like a native, don't get into conversations with the locals!" He paused again, letting that warning sink in. "Okay...to orientate yourselves, this train is heading in a general east to southeast direction. Therefore, north lies in that direction--!" He pointed to the left of the car. "South is that way--!" He pointed to the right side. "West--and our lines--lies in that direction." He pointed toward the back of the railcar. "Any questions?"

More than four-dozen upturned faces shook solemnly in unison. "Okay, remember...once you drop, time the wheels, then roll over the track. Regroup with your team and start for home. The teams will move out in three minute intervals." Saunders stopped, giving each man time to digest the combined need for urgency and caution. Wanting to lighten the mood, he added, "Oh, and if I see any of your ugly faces back home again, the beer's on me."

"Beer!" A wag spoke up. "Sarge, if any of us get home, I think you'll owe us a nice bottle of whiskey!"

"Make that bourbon!"

Smiling, Saunders quieted them again. "Okay...I'll buy you fellas your drink of choice. Now let's get ready." He gave the men one last look, then spoke briskly, "Johnson, Liebowitz, Thompson--you're first!"

**

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Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0030hrs local**

**Somewhere in Bavaria**

**Between the towns of Aschaffenburg and Wurzburg**

* * *

Saunders shook hands with Dickinson.

"Good luck, Yank!" Dickinson said, preparing to lower himself through the opening in the floor. The rest of his team had already exited.

"Same to you," Saunders murmured. With a wave, Dickinson disappeared into the darkness below. Saunders turned to Doc and Caje. "It's our turn. Doc, you'll go first."

"Me?" Doc shook his head. "I think I should go last, Sarge, to make sure that Caje makes it."

"No, Doc," Caje said. "I'll only slow you down." He turned his dark gaze on Saunders. "I'm not going with you, Sarge. I'll never make it."

"Hey, Caje, you listen to me," Saunders said. "You're coming with us, and we're **_all_** gonna make together. You got that?"

Caje merely shook his head. "You know that I'm right, Sarge. I barely have enough strength to sit up, much less hike any distance...No, like I said, I'll only slow you and Doc down. You're both better off leaving me here."

Doc broke in. "Look, Caje...I ain't leaving this train without you. If you stay, then I'm staying, too."

"Doc, that's crazy," Caje protested.

"Maybe so, but that's the way it is," Doc said matter-of-factly.

"You see, Caje?" Saunders spoke quietly. "You've gotta come with us." He shrugged. "If you stay, then Doc stays 'cause you're his responsibility. And, if you and Doc stay, then I have to stay, too, 'cause you're **_both_** my responsibility." He grinned boyishly. "Now you wouldn't want that on your conscience would you?"

"I think you're **_both_** crazy," Caje replied, but with an answering grin.

"Well, we're about to drop under a moving train and then roll across the tracks, hoping that we're not cut in half by the train's wheels," Doc summarized. "I'd say that '**_crazy_**' just about covers it."

Caje gave him a weak grin. "Y'know, Doc...that makes me feel **_so_** much better."

"Okay, enough talk!" Saunders broke in. "Let's get the lead out. Doc...you first!"

Doc looked like he was about to protest, but one look at Saunders' expression, and he swallowed his words. "Okay, Sarge." He stood and paused at the opening. "Ummmm...Sarge?" He gave Saunders a doubtful look. "I ain't so sure about this."

Saunders walked up to him and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "It'll be snap, Doc. Just lower yourself until your feet are touching the ground--you'll notice the cross beams striking the backs of your heels, I think."

"Oh, that's real nice."

"Get's better. When you let go, make sure that you drop straight down, and for God's sake, Doc--don't roll! Give yourself a moment to get your bearings and time the wheels. Then go!" He paused, giving Doc a look of quiet encouragement. "You can do it, Doc. Now come on, the war's waiting."

Doc nodded resignedly. Then with no further word, he squatted down next to the hole, swung his legs over, and lowered himself carefully. With one final look at Saunders and Caje he dropped into the darkness.

Saunders turned to Caje. "You're next, buddy."

Caje nodded, an almost identical look of resignation as Doc on his face. "And here I thought the Krauts were the ones who were gonna kill me," he said ironically.

Saunders grinned. "Hey, what are pals for?" Turning suddenly serious, he added, "Remember, when you drop--"

"--Don't roll," Caje finished for him. "Try to drop straight down."

"You know...you're a lot smarter than Kirby says you are," Saunders teased. "And Caje, I don't want you try anything stupid--you wait for me, got it?"

Caje nodded tiredly. "I got it, Sarge."

"And don't worry, buddy. We're gonna make it all the way back to our lines. That's a promise."

As Saunders helped him to his feet, Caje asked, "I've never doubted you yet, have I?"

"Well..." Saunders mused, walking his friend to the waiting black hole. "That's true, but then I've never asked you to do anything like this before either."

"You have a point," Caje admitted, taking his position next to the hole. "Sarge...you really think we'll make it?"

Not answering immediately, Saunders helped him swing his legs over and then gently, but firmly grabbed him by the underarms.

"I gave you my word, didn't I?" With that Saunders began painstakingly lowering the injured man into the waiting depths below until all he had was Caje's wrists.

* * *

"Okay, Sarge," Caje said. "Let go!"

Saunders released his hold, and anxious over his friend, he hurriedly swung his legs over the lip of the jagged opening, lowered himself and dropped. Taking a desperate chance, he quickly turned himself around until his head was turned toward the rear of the train, instead of facing forward. Next, Saunders scrambled at a semi-low crawl until he reached Caje who was lying, unmoving, where he had dropped. He had lost consciousness.

Wrapping his arms securely around his friend, Saunders counted the seconds between the train wheels. Sending up a short prayer, he took a deep, calming breath and rolled them both over the train track. They just managed to clear it, when the heavy iron wheel passed immediately next to their heads. Saunders actually **_felt_** the air displacement as it passed by.

Chest heaving, Saunders gasped for air, sucking in several lungfuls before collapsing next to Caje. The next minute, Doc was there, his very presence offering comfort to the two spent men.

"Sarge! Caje! Boy, am I glad to see you two. Sarge, don't you ever ask me to do any such durn fool thing again! 'Cause I ain't gonna do it! Nosiree, I ain't."

Catching his breath, Saunders finally managed to wheeze, "I didn't ask you to do it, Doc. I ordered you to do it." He paused. "There's a difference."

"Oh, yeah? Well, next time you can just court-martial me, 'cause I ain't--!"

"Doc--?" Caje's voice was barely a croak.

Doc was instantly cradling him by the head and shoulders. "Yeah, Caje...what is it? How're you feeling? Blast it...you're bleeding again! I knew it!"

"Doc...willya shut up? You're giving me a headache."

"Well, ain't that a nice 'how d'you do'?" Doc asked. "Here I am trying to show compassion and concern for a buddy, and--"

"Shut up, Doc!" Saunders and Caje said together. Both men started to chuckle at Doc's nonplussed look. Slowly, an embarrassed grin softened Doc's features, and soon all three were shaking with silent laughter. The brief respite broke the tension of the previous minutes.

Saunders knew they needed the moment to regroup mentally and physically. His restless eyes searched the starry sky and immediately identified the North Star. Returning his attention to his men, Saunders felt a wave of relief wash over him. They were safely off the POW train and were still alive. He stood slowly, his action bringing the others back to earth.

Doc looked up at Saunders and then down at Caje. Without having to be told, he re-bandaged Caje's wound, and satisfied that he had stopped the bleeding again, Doc began helping him up. "Come on, buddy. Time to go."

"I know, Doc," Caje said. He looked up at Saunders. "'...Miles to go before I sleep,' huh, Sarge?"

"Something like that," Saunders replied. Then with a wry grin added, "Just be glad it isn't snowing."

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0430hrs local**

**Somewhere in Bavaria**

**Between Hammelburg and Wurzburg**

* * *

"Okay, Doc," Saunders gasped. "Let's take ten."

They had been hiking in the thick Bavarian woods for hours, the rest stops growing more frequently as the night progressed. Saunders had opted not to travel directly west, believing that when the Germans got wind of the escape, they would start their search for the escaped POWs in that general direction. Instead, Saunders had his little party head north.

Saunders felt that if they could avoid the Krauts' dragnet for the first twenty-four hours and find food and shelter, then they might stand a chance for success. Only then, would Saunders start on a westerly course.

"Take ten?" Doc panted. "Like 'ten hours,' I hope?"

Despite his state of exhaustion, Saunders grinned at Doc's attempt at humor. "I'll see what I can do," he replied, chest heaving.

Gently, they lowered the makeshift litter that they had put together to carry Caje. As the Louisiana native had predicted, he could barely sit up without help, much less walk. In addition, he kept slipping in and out of consciousness.

As soon as they laid the litter on the ground, Doc dropped down next to it. Feeling drained, his actions were closer to that of a state of collapse than a deliberate move on his part. His motions were slowed due to his being on the verge of total exhaustion, but he determinedly checked his patient's condition.

"How is he?"

Saunders spoke from behind and above him, but Doc was too tired to turn. "Not good, Sarge. He's running a fever." Doc paused, feeling his shoulders slump in resignation. "What he really needs is a hospital. Not to mention a bed..." He paused, then continued in a tired litany, "...food, water." He finally turned and faced Saunders. "He was right, Sarge. We shouldn't've taken him off that train."

Saunders did not reply. Instead, when he spoke it was on another topic. "It'll be light in another couple of hours. We need to find shelter." He hesitated over his next statement. "Doc...I need to scout ahead to search for a place to hole up for the day." He paused, not liking the idea of leaving his friends for any period of time. "Will you two be all right?"

"We don't have much choice, do we?" Doc asked.

Saunders again did not reply directly to the question; instead, he said quietly, "Take care of him, Doc." He turned to go.

Doc nodded, the gesture gone unnoticed by Saunders' retreating back.

As soon as Saunders disappeared into the darkness, Doc again checked Caje's bandages. He wanted to build a fire but knew the danger of it being spotted. Sighing, he sat back on his heels. He and Saunders had already sacrificed their field jackets for the litter, so he had nothing else to offer Caje for warmth.

Looking around the heavy underbrush, he got a sudden idea. Getting to his feet, he searched the immediate area for loose branches lying on the ground. Hurrying, he collected as many as he could carry and dumped them next to Caje. Checking the wind direction, he gently dragged Caje to a spot that was a bit more protected.

Doc then started rigging a crude shelter from the leafy branches he had collected earlier. Working steadily, he soon forgot his own exhaustion and before long had successfully constructed a fair cover.

"Well, it ain't much to look at," he said softly, "but it sure beats laying out in the open." Looking down at the opening, he addressed Caje. "What do you think, buddy?"

"I think that I'd like to see you put your hands up, mate!" a voice growled behind him. "**_Hande hoch_**!"

Before Doc could reply, he heard the distinct sounds of multiple machinegun bolts being pulled. The frightening sounds came from all around him, telling him that he was surrounded. Doc slowly raised his hands, disgusted with himself for allowing the enemy to sneak up on him.

* * *

As luck would have it, Saunders had been reconning for less than twenty minutes, when he came upon an opening in the woods. A good-sized long house lay situated in the center of the clearing. The structure was rather large for a single family home, at least by the standards he had come to expect in his brief travels across Europe.

It looked vaguely familiar to a farmhouse in which his squad had stayed overnight in early July. In fact, it appeared to have the same overall layout: On one end, the timbered house boasted two-levels and a thatched roof. Its outer walls were clean, whitewashed stucco.

Its windows were covered with well-maintained shutters, a flower garden welcomed visitors from either side of the front door, and a precise, cobbled walkway led out to a picket fence. Keeping to the edge of the woods, Saunders circled the house, noting two main openings in the front and another in back.

Attached to the farmhouse, was a long, single story addition with several small, utilitarian windows running along its sides. In the center of the attachment was a set of large double doors that Saunders had come to associate with barns and other farm outbuildings.

Admittedly, it was an attractive setup, and he wondered if it was a common local construction. As he studied the house, a light suddenly came on upstairs. As it did, he remembered that the design of the house probably served two functions. The family residence was located on the two-storied, neatly maintained side. Perhaps the upstairs is where the family bedrooms were located, while downstairs would probably have the day rooms.

On the other hand, the long attached structure probably served as a barn. Saunders shook his head and shrugged. Families living side-by-side with their farm animals was something new to him. And yet, he remembered Littlejohn's explanation. The giant, Midwestern farm boy informed him that the setup was quite efficient and that it saved in heating costs.

Apparently, the family relied on the body heat from the farm animals to keep the house relatively warm in the winter. Of course, since it was early August, perhaps the animals were bedded down for the night somewhere else?

As if in answer to his question, a young woman in her mid-twenties walked out into the early morning gloom. As soon as she was outside, she kicked off her slippers and stepped into a pair of wooden clogs. Once properly attired, she started making little clucking noises and sprinkling the ground immediately outside her gate with feed. She was soon being eagerly followed by a flock of clucking chickens.

Next, the girl made her way to the large double doors, and opening them, she disappeared inside.

Saunders waited tensely. He needed to get an idea if she would be of any help. Of course, he recalled his own words to the other men prior to their jumping off the train. There would be little or no help from the locals, he had told them.

The voice of caution spoke insistently in his ear: Don't risk it. There are other farms.

But how many farms would likely be occupied by only one girl? Saunders countered stubbornly.

Oh, and of course you have proof that there are no other people living there? Saunders sighed. The inner voice was unfortunately making good sense.

On the other hand, they could all still be in bed, he argued.

Yeah, and she could be Cinderella and her evil stepmother and stepsisters are all waiting for her to finish her morning chores.

Okay, okay...you win. Saunders shook his head, hating to admit that it was too risky. But it was. The outbuildings were little more than rickety shacks, leaving little room to hide from the farm's occupants. And, with the barn directly attached to the house, it would be relatively impossible to even attempt to use it in the first place.

Arriving at his decision, he turned to go.

At that moment, a group of men all dressed in dark, non-reflective clothing emerged from the other side of the woods--the same direction from which he had just come--the same direction in which had left his men.

Suddenly, to Saunders' dismay, he saw Doc stumble out of the trees, carrying the front end of the litter. The other end was being carried by one of mysterious men. A tall, dark-haired man, his features disguised under a layer of black soot, casually held a Schmeisser behind Doc's back. Following them, two others also carried machine pistols. The dark-haired man, the obvious leader, gave a silent command to the two, which they promptly obeyed.

As the men hurriedly crossed the farmyard, Saunders noted that one was rather short, while the other seemed a bit clumsy. This was shown almost immediately when he stumbled over the uneven ground and fell headfirst into the flock of peaceful chickens, scattering them in all four compass directions.

The shorter man simply shook his head in disgust and without a word offered his companion a hand up. The clumsy man gratefully took his hand and soon was dusting himself off.

Meanwhile, the sudden commotion had brought the girl running outside to investigate. At the sight of the men, she suddenly smiled, yelled something in German--Saunders assumed it was a greeting--and gave each of them a welcoming hug. She paused shyly in front of the tall leader, but he gamely took her hand in his and kissed it gallantly.

By the breaking light of dawn, Saunders could see the color rise in her cheeks. He rolled his eyes. This guy's a real player.

The happy reunion did not last long, however. She noticed Doc for the first time and Caje. As soon as she saw the wounded Cajun, her smiles turned to concern. Immediately, she pointed toward the farmhouse. Nodding, the leader indicated that they take Caje inside; meanwhile, he placed the other two in different strategic points to watch the approaches to the house.

Saunders had to hand it to him. "The guy knows what he's doing."

"You got that right, pal," a menacing voice growled behind him. "Now, be a good boy, and **_hande hoch_**!"

End of Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

_**Summary**: Saunders, Doc and Caje meet Colonel Hogan and his men!_

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue." _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

**Copyright**: December 2005 **

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis** **

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0500hrs local**

**Somewhere in Bavaria**

**Between Hammelburg and Wurzburg**

* * *

"We don't have time," the leader said, pointing at his watch. "Roll call will be in another thirty minutes. We have to be there or we could ruin the whole operation." He glared at Saunders. "You, my friend, are a headache we don't need."

"Yeah, well, we could say the same thing about you," Doc broke in.

"What happened, Doc? How's Caje?" Saunders asked. However, before Doc could answer, yet another man came up behind him and pressed him down into a seat.

"I wouldn't talk if I were you, mate." His words were delivered in a clear, Cockney accent. To emphasize his warning, he wordlessly made a slashing motion across his throat. The threat was clear: No talking or else!

Saunders looked around at the strange men, all dressed similarly in dark, non-reflective clothing. The two others who had spoken to him--the black man and the leader--sounded American, but they both spoke perfect German to the girl. So far, they had said or done nothing to make him trust them.

No, that was not exactly true. They had laid Caje on a small settee in the sitting room, next to the fireplace, and were allowing the girl to tend to his needs at the moment. Glancing at Doc, he saw the stark look of longing he gave Caje, his need to help their friend almost palpable.

"You know, it won't hurt anyone if you let Doc here take care of our friend," Saunders said. However, his words went unheeded.

Saunders felt disgusted that he had allowed himself to be recaptured less than six hours after their escape. He glared at the leader--the 'colonel' as the others addressed him--wondering what he had planned for them.

Studying the interplay between the colonel and the black man that had escorted him to the farmhouse, he noted that they had what looked like an easy-going relationship, nothing like his awkward leader/subordinate friendship with Lieutenant Hanley. No, these men appeared to be equals in every way; yet, the colonel was clearly in charge.

Saunders studied the black man. When he had first come up from behind him in the woods, Saunders had mistakenly thought that like his leader, the man's features were disguised under a layer of black soot; however, a closer look revealed that the man was actually dark-skinned...

"You're no German!" Saunders blurted out.

"Why? 'Cause I'm not blond and blue-eyed like you, pal?" The black man studied Saunders closely. "Yep, with those looks, you could pass for 'Aryan Poster Boy of the Month.'"

"You're an American!" Saunders accused, ignoring the taunt. "What're you doing out here--?"

"I could ask you the same question, Blondie," the black man sneered.

"Saunders, Sergeant!" Saunders spat out. "Two-two-seven-zero-six-two-two! And that's all you're gonna get!"

"Relax, Saunders. I'll leave the interrogations to the colonel."

"The colonel?" Saunders asked.

But the black man simply gestured with the weapon he was holding. Saunders needed no translation: Move it...!

And now, he, Doc and Caje were their prisoners. But if they were Americans, then why were they being held prisoner? Unless, of course, the men were collaborators. Again, he glared daggers at the colonel, daring him to try anything.

At that moment, Caje began muttering in French in his sleep. Every few words, he cried out, "Sarge!" in his delirium. At his words, the colonel started toward him, and Saunders suddenly jumped to his feet.

"What are you doing--?" he demanded.

"Hey! That man's wounded!" Doc yelled outraged. "He can't do anything to hurt you! You can see he's running a fever! Please, let me help him!"

They both made a move toward Caje, but the muzzles of two Schmeissers and the cold eyes of the two men who wielded them held them in place.

"Get LeBeau!" the colonel snapped. The black man nodded to the one who had spoken with a Cockney accent. A few moments later, the short man that Saunders had seen earlier entered.

"_Colonel?_ Did you wish to see me?"

Saunders glanced at Doc. The smaller man's accent was clearly French. A Brit, a Frenchman, a black American and what appeared to be an American colonel? What had they stumbled onto? A mini-Allied combined arms operation?

"LeBeau, what's he saying?" the colonel asked.

The shorter man listened attentively for a few minutes, his face frowning on occasion. Finally, he shrugged expansively. "_Colonel_, some words are lost to me. He speaks with an unusual accent, but--"

"Can you make out what he's saying?"

_"Oui, mon colonel!"_ LeBeau shrugged again. "He is begging his sergeant--" He glanced around the little room and pointed at Saunders. "--to leave him back. He is afraid that he will only slow them down." He paused, concentrating. "He keeps saying something about a POW train and the _Bosch_. He is most anxious that the _Bosch_ do not recapture his friends."

The colonel nodded. "Thanks, LeBeau. Go back to your post."

_"Oui, mon colonel!"_ With that, the diminutive Frenchman headed outside again.

Nodding towards Caje, the colonel asked, "French?" but Saunders merely glared at him. Doc took his signals from Saunders and refused to reply as well.

Rolling his eyes at their attitude, the colonel shook his head. "Okay, this is the deal, Sergeant," he said. "Your wounded friend here obviously needs medical attention. Anna--" He pointed at the young woman standing next to him. "--has volunteered to stay with him until we can contact the local doctor to come out here."

"Now wait just a doggone minute!" Doc protested. "I ain't leaving Caje! Not for a minute, I ain't!"

The colonel held his hands up for quiet. "I don't expect you to." He held the two exhausted men's eyes, impressed by their open defiance in face of such overwhelming odds. "That's why we're leaving you behind with your friend."

"What? Begging the colonel's pardon, sir," the Englishman demurred, "but don't you think that's a bit rash? I mean...what if they're really spies or something--you know...not exactly on the up and up?"

The colonel nodded. "I thought of that, Newkirk, but somehow I don't believe they are. Besides, we're taking their sergeant with us, just in case."

"Just in case of what?" Doc demanded.

"Oh, I don't know...fire? flood?" The colonel's brown eyes crinkled in wry amusement.

"What?" Doc asked, clearly not understanding.

"He means, for insurance," Saunders said flatly. "Now you listen to me, Doc. No matter what happens, you're to head back to our lines, you hear me? That's your **_first_** responsibility. Don't worry about me **_or_** Caje. Head back the first chance you get. That's an **_order_**, Doc!"

The colonel grinned tolerantly. "Somehow, Sergeant, I have a feeling that's one order your medic will wisely choose not to obey." He shook his head. "The truth is I don't want to take either of you, but I can't afford to leave you out here, Sergeant. You're liable to do something rash, like get yourself killed. So, you're coming with us. Your friends will be safe here as long as they don't go outside or do something foolish to call attention to themselves." He glanced at his watch again and gave his men an apologetic look. "As it is, fellas, we're gonna be late for roll call anyway."

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0526hrs local**

**Outside LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Saunders gasped, practically staggering as he followed in the wake of his captors. He knew that he was nearing his physical limits. With no decent food or water for almost three days, being on the move for more than five hours, much of those carrying Caje, his body was close to giving out on him. When the colonel called a halt in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere, Saunders did not argue. He simply collapsed in place where he had just been standing.

"How much farther?" he managed to ask breathlessly.

"Not much. We're almost there, in fact." The young man who was evidently supposed to be guarding him gave Saunders an eager, ingenuous smile. In fact, he exuded so much openness and friendliness that Saunders felt disinclined to trust him. "By the way, I'm Carter," the young man added shyly.

Before Saunders could respond, his shy friend suddenly dove on top of him, holding him still. "Shhhhh..." Carter hissed. "Krauts!"

Saunders instantly froze underneath him, listening. Sure enough, German voices floated up to them from somewhere to their far left. At length, the voices were matched by two pairs of gleaming jackboots that marched at a brisk pace past them. The boots were accompanied by two slavering German shepherds.

Saunders held his breath as one of the dogs sniffed the air in their direction and made a sudden, whimpering sound. The guard spoke sharply to it, and the dog settled down, ignoring the scent coming from the low-lying brush. With what Saunders could swear was a regretful last look, the dog moved on.

"That was Max," Carter said in Saunders' ear. "He's real friendly."

"Who's Max?" Saunders asked. "The guard?"

"Are you kidding, pal? I'm not friends with any of the goons!"

"Then who?"

"The dog, silly. Max is the German shepherd that spotted us. I guess he wanted to come over and play."

"What--?" Saunders was about to ask why a guard dog would want to play with him, but the colonel was already signaling that they move forward. They continued at a brisk pace, keeping to the deep gloom and thick underbrush. Saunders still had no idea where they were going or why this roll call was so important, but he could see the anxiety on his captors' faces and feel their sense of urgency.

Soon, the colonel called yet another halt. Each man took up a kneeling position, listening for signs of enemy patrols, watching the shadows for any hidden Germans. After a momentary pause, the colonel urgently signaled each of his men to proceed, and one-by-one, Saunders watched them disappear into the early morning mists.

At last, only Saunders and the tall leader were left. The colonel moved up next to him and clapped him on the shoulder. "Let's go." To Saunders' surprise the colonel preceded him as if forgetting that Saunders was supposed to be his prisoner. Not quite knowing why he did, Saunders followed him without any thought of giving him the slip.

A few meters later, the colonel urgently waved him down. Not having time to think, Saunders ducked just as a bright searchlight swept the area around him. As soon as the beam passed by, the colonel signaled Saunders to join him where he was crouched next to a tree stump.

"Okay, Sergeant. We're here."

"We're where?" Saunders looked blank.

The colonel gave him an impish smile. "Home sweet home!" With that he lifted the top off the ordinary tree stump and pressed Saunders to go in. "Hurry, that searchlight will be swinging back in another second!"

Not needing to be told twice, Saunders climbed inside. There was a ladder immediately within the tree stump, and as he started scrambling down, he noted that the colonel was right above him, hurriedly closing the lid.

"That was too close," the colonel muttered.

"Hey, you guys! Get the lead out!" A voice echoed weirdly from somewhere in the darkness below. The next instant, the black man, now dressed in G.I. issue with staff sergeant stripes on the sleeves appeared. He was carrying a lit torch. "Colonel Hogan! Schultz is about to have kittens! We've gotta get out there!"

"Coming, mother!" The colonel muttered as he brushed past Saunders at a fast jog. As he ran, the colonel began stripping off his dark clothing. "You have to understand Sergeant Kinchloe...he's likes to worry."

"Yeah, well, somebody around here has to," Kinchloe muttered. "The goons around here might be dumber than most, but they're not--"

"--Stupid?" Hogan finished with a snort. They had arrived in a large underground room, and Hogan was now down to his shorts and boots. Hurrying to a metal locker, he pulled out a pair of pants, a khaki shirt, and a brown leather jacket.

"Okay...bad choice of words, sir. But you know that we can only push Klink so far, and I don't think you want to spend the next thirty days in the cooler, do you?"

As Saunders watched, the man was transformed into who he really was--an American air force colonel. The silver eagles on his uniform shirt were matched by the faded insignia on his battered bomber's jacket.

Hogan paused a moment and slapped Kinchloe on the shoulder. "You're right, Kinch," he said. Keeping a straight face, he added, "It **_was_** a bad choice of words."

Kinchloe gave him a sour look, shaking his head at his commanding officer's irreverence. Not bothering to say anything further, the senior noncom went up another ladder and through a trapdoor in the ceiling above.

Giving Saunders a devilish grin, Hogan donned his campaign cap and followed the black staff sergeant up the ladder. When Saunders made a move to follow, the colonel held up his hand.

"Sorry, Sergeant. This is your stop, I'm afraid. The upstairs lounge is strictly off-limits to non-flyers." With that and a wink, the colonel fairly flew up the ladder.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0531hrs local**

**Parade Ground**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

"Hogaaaaaaan!"

Hogan winced. He was more than a minute late. Thinking quickly, he assumed his most disingenuous look, and greeted the camp kommandant with a bright smile.

"Good morning, Kommandant!" Abruptly, Hogan's smile disappeared as he did a sudden double take. "Colonel Klink--!" Hogan stared open-mouthed at the German officer. "That's not a--?" Hogan brusquely cut himself off.

"What?" Klink stared back in obvious confusion. "Colonel Hogan, what are you talking about?" The German kommandant took a couple of tentative steps forward.

"No..." Hogan said, with a shake of the head. "Just wishful thinking, I guess." He dropped his head regretfully.

"What? What's wishful thinking?" Klink demanded. "Colonel Hogan, you are not making much sense."

Hogan looked up slowly. "I'm sorry, sir," he mumbled. "It's just that...well, just now, as the sun was coming over the barbed wire and the delousing station...well, the sunlight just managed to catch your collar insignia..." He shrugged again, his voice fading.

"Yes, so what?" Klink's curiosity had yet again gotten the best of him. "Colonel Hogan, what about my collar insignia?"

"I thought for a split second that I saw a general's insignia there, sir." He dropped his eyes again in feigned sorrow.

Klink stared at him in astonishment. "You thought that I had been promoted to general? Hogan, what on earth could ever give you such a ridiculous idea?"

What indeed, Hogan asked himself. Still, it was all he could think of at the spur of the moment to get Klink off his back for being late to roll call. Risking a peek at Klink, Hogan was just a little pleased with the kommandant's reaction so far.

"Ridiculous idea, sir? I protest!" Hogan spoke with mock outrage. "I know that I spoke out of turn, but--well, it's just that the men and I have been rooting for you for a couple of years now, sir--"

"You have?" Klink asked wide-eyed. Looking around at the other prisoners, he added, "They have?"

"Oh, of course, sir!" Hogan said, surreptitiously signaling his men to go along. Suddenly, the rest of the prisoners began nodding their heads with the sincerest possible insincerity.

"Of course we've been rooting for you to get everything you deserve, sir!" Newkirk called out.

"That's for sure, boy...uh, sir!" Carter chimed in. "We all hope you get everything that's coming to you!"

Hogan scowled at them, but kept up his inane chatter next to Klink. "You see, sir? It was all an honest mistake...I just figured that finally you had received the recognition that you so well deserve for your work here. But, well, I guess I was wrong and put my foot in it."

Klink looked genuinely touched. "That is quite all right, Colonel Hogan. It was an honest mistake." He smiled broadly at the senior POW officer. "Hogan, I had no idea you and your men held me in such high esteem."

"Neither did I," Kinchloe muttered from behind Hogan. Hogan flashed him a warning look.

His chest swelling just a bit, Klink strutted up and down the morning formation with a definite swagger and accidentally slapped his riding crop against his thigh. He winced at the sharp, unexpected pain, but managed to keep his smile in place.

"Schultz!" Klink called for his sergeant-of-the-guard in a wheezy croak.

"_Jawohl, Herr Kommandant_!" Shultz stood stiffly at attention before Klink, his crisp salute actually appearing military for a change.

"Dismiss the prisoners..." Klink saluted hurriedly and limped back to his office in obvious pain, Hogan's lateness apparently forgotten.

Schultz turned around to face the prisoner formation that was already breaking up. The sullen men were muttering under their breath, casting looks of disdain in his and the kommandant's direction. Unmindful of their surly attitude, the rotund sergeant-of-the-guard called, "Dismissed!"

As Hogan started heading back to his barracks, he caught Schultz's eye and gave him knowing wink. At that moment Schultz realized that the American colonel had deliberately played the kommandant for a fool. What was more, Hogan knew that Schultz knew it, too.

Worse, the hapless sergeant could not do anything about it because he had already been involved in too many of Colonel Hogan's strange activities and failed to report them. At the senior POW's brash smile, Schultz's eyes widened and then squeezed shut. He could almost see the frozen landscape of the Russian Front.

"I know nothing," he muttered.

End of Part 3


	4. Chapter 4

_**Summary**: Saunders learns a little more about Hogan and his secret operation._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue." _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

**Copyright**: December 2005 **

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0531hrs local**

**Tunnel Under Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Saunders stood a moment longer looking up at the trapdoor through which the colonel had disappeared. What had Sergeant Kinchloe called him? Colonel Hogan?

"Well, Colonel Hogan," Saunders muttered, "I don't know what's going on, but I intend to find out." With those words, the veteran infantry sergeant began taking stock of his surroundings.

His initial cursory glance around the place left him in open-mouthed awe. He stood in the midst of a vast, labyrinthine network of underground tunnels. No claustrophobic crawlspace here. From where he stood, he could see that building this underground complex had taken a feat of superior engineering. How prisoners of war--and Saunders had already surmised that his 'captors' were actually captured prisoners themselves--had managed to construct it under the very noses of **_their_** captors was beyond his reckoning.

Saunders thought back to his own previous experience as a POW under an SS Captain named Steiner. The prisoners had started a fake tunnel to throw their captors off their real scheme, which involved electrifying the outer gate. Although they never had any intention to actually use the tunnel, the little that they had excavated--no more than ten feet straight down--had taken most of the strength that his men had left.

Of course, they had had only their bare hands and crude tools with which to dig. Looking around once more, he shook his head in utter amazement.

Also, Saunders had to wonder at the improbability of POWs that seemingly had free reign to come and go as they pleased, while running around the woods dressed up like commandos on a secret raid. What had he gotten himself into? Who **_were_** these guys?

And who exactly was Colonel Hogan?

Saunders shook himself. He did not know how much time he had before the others got back, and he intended to find out as much as he could prior to their return.

Spotting a radio, Saunders started there. He found parts manuals and a notebook with notations written in a neat hand. Flipping through it, he soon put it back. It was written in an indecipherable code.

"Greek to me," he muttered.

With a shrug, he continued his inspection. Soon, Saunders came to a series of vertical metal lockers with double-doors. One set held German uniforms of various ranks--from private to general. It also held civilian clothing, more specifically women's clothes. One outfit in particular caught his attention: A bright red skirt, lovely peasant blouse and rough-spun shawl.

Did Hogan and his men actually disguise themselves as women at times? Trying to picture the Schmeisser-wielding, stone-faced men he had seen back in the farmhouse dressed in drag, Saunders shook head. "Nah...could never happen," he muttered.

Next to the uniform locker stood another with doors slightly ajar. Naturally, Saunders took it to mean that it was an open invitation to investigate the contents. Yanking the doors open, Saunders stared for a moment; the next instant, his face lit in a pleased smile. He had found their weapons locker.

"How very careless of you, Colonel Hogan," he murmured. "Didn't they teach you better in officer training one-oh-one?"

Hurriedly rummaging through the locker, he made an unexpected discovery--a Thompson. He quickly checked its operation, expertly running it through the weapon's maintenance and safety checks. Finally, he pointed it down one of the several tunnels that branched off into the darkness and dry fired.

It was in perfect condition. He took a moment to run his hands almost lovingly down its stock, enjoying the feel of the well-oiled wood. At last, slinging it over his shoulder, he went down on his knees and searched the many ammo cases at the base of the locker for .45 caliber rounds.

Scrounging up a few ammo magazines, Saunders slapped one into the weapon and stuffed the rest inside his shirt. Feeling fully dressed for the first time in several days, Saunders took another look around the underground complex before his eyes moved of their own free will toward the trapdoor above the ladder.

Making up his mind, Saunders moved quickly toward it and was soon cracking open the trapdoor at the top. Taking a cautious peek, Saunders' face quirked in a 'now what?' expression. The trapdoor was cleverly camouflaged as part of one of the bunks. "First, a tree stump that opens into the tunnels, and now a bunk bed that serves the same function. These guys are full of surprises."

Carefully climbing out, Saunders held the tommygun at ready as he slowly inspected the 'upstairs lounge' as Colonel Hogan had described it. There were several double-tiered bunks lined along both walls of the building. In the center stood an old-fashioned wood burning stove and a beat up table. From the center pole hung a lit oil lamp that barely managed to pierce the gloom.

The bunks were in a state of disarray, probably due to the scramble to make their morning roll call. The walls, floors, and windows had a film of dingy gray from numerous washings with dirty water. A dim light was trying to break through the windows' grimy outer layer.

"Drab **_and_** depressing," he assessed.

He saw a door clearly marked 'Exit' and cautiously opened it a crack. Peering out, he saw a large, ragtag formation of men in the uniforms of different Allied armies. They were not exactly standing sharply at attention, he noted. In fact, several were yelling catcalls at the German guards, while others laughed at their friends' antics.

Spotting Hogan at the head of the prisoner formation, thumbs hooked inside the pockets of his leather jacket, looking the very picture of casual disrespect, Saunders surmised from whom the other prisoners were taking their cue.

Closing the door, Saunders crossed the open barracks to a closed door located at the far end. He grinned suddenly when he saw that it had been marked 'Private.' Smirking, he did not have any trouble visualizing Colonel Hogan hanging a 'do not disturb' sign outside his door in a POW camp.

"That probably went over well with the Krauts."

Trying the doorknob, he found it unlocked and pushed it open. In a well-practiced move, he stepped quickly to the left to avoid silhouetting himself against the door. He blinked in the sudden darkness. The tiny room's only window was shuttered close, its only source of light whatever seeped in from the main room.

Saunders took a moment to let his eyes adjust before moving. He made out a small field desk with a coffeepot sitting on top, a straight back chair, a metal vertical locker and twin bunks. Within minutes his search of the desk and locker had yielded nothing, except ordinary items one would expect to find.

The desk had a neat stack of paper and pencils on the upper left-hand corner. A dog-eared copy of Shakespeare's Tragedieslay opened to HamletPicking it up, he read a passage that had been underlined.

"'This above all...To thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.'" Curious, he read a couple more underlined passages then with a thoughtful expression lay the book back down in its original place.

He picked up and then put back down a common, metal coffeepot that sat on the table, awaiting its next job. He wondered why the colonel kept the empty coffeepot on his desk rather than on the stove in the other room but shrugged, figuring rank had its quirks as well as its privileges.

At that moment, he heard the door in the next room slam open, followed by the sound of men's raised voices as the barracks' occupants returned to their quarters.

Holding the Thompson at the ready, Saunders leaned against the locker and waited. Colonel Hogan, followed by Sergeant Kinchloe, strode in.

"That was beautiful, Colonel. You sure got to him."

"Kinch, like taking candy from a baby," Hogan said immodestly. "A very large, very ugly baby but--"

He spotted Saunders and halted. More importantly, he saw the Thompson that the sergeant was handling quite expertly.

"Okay, gentlemen," Saunders said pleasantly. "Now, it's my turn--**_hande hoch_**!"

At his words, both Hogan and his sergeant winced.

"Please, Saunders...stick to English!" Kinchloe griped.

"Yeah, with that accent you could be brought up on war crimes charges," Hogan added.

Saunders gave them a sardonic look. "Okay...English it is. But I'm not the one doing the talking--you are." He emphasized his words by jabbing the muzzle of his weapon at them.

"That's what you think, Blondie!" As he spoke, Kinchloe made a move toward Saunders, but the younger man was ready. Easily shifting the tommygun in his hands, he struck the black NCO in the midsection with the stock of the weapon. Kinchloe grunted, doubling over, his knees folding under him. Before Hogan could react, Saunders already had him covered.

"Sergeant Saunders, y'know you're making it awfully hard for us to want to help you," Hogan protested.

"Look, I don't want to hurt anybody. But unless you prove to me that you're not running some kind of secret Kraut operation here--"

"A Kraut operation!" Kinchloe spat out, struggling to his feet.

"Yeah! I've got eyes, pal! I saw the radio and secret codebook. Plus, I saw the German uniforms--enough for an army--and I've been shot at enough times by German infiltrators to know that I don't trust rats that keep enemy uniforms handy."

"That's ridiculous, Saunders," Kinchloe argued. "Those uniforms are legit--so's we can infiltrate local enemy operations!"

"Yeah, but whose army are you infiltrating?" Saunders countered. "I've seen guys like you who speak perfect English and sound just like the folks back home, but then they turn around and shoot you in the back." He indicated the Thompson in his hands. "And let's not forget the arms locker or that marvel of tunnel engineering downstairs. There is no way that ordinary prisoners of war could've dug **_that_** out."

"Colonel," Kinchloe growled, "I say we throw him out on his ear and feed him to the goons." He glared at Saunders. "Listen, you pig-headed dogface, we're the best thing that's ever happened to you, but you're too stupid to see it!"

"Then why don't you enlighten me?" Saunders bit out. The other man was about to reply, but Hogan broke in.

"Kinch, he's right."

"What? Colonel, you can't be serious!" Kinchloe protested. "We can't let him in on the operation. We haven't even verified his identity!" He gave Saunders a sardonic look. "What if **_he's_** an infiltrator? I mean with **_those_** looks--!"

Saunders took a threatening step forward, but then stopped. He fingered the trigger almost squeezing it. "I oughtta turn this loose on you--!"

Stepping between the two noncoms, Hogan said sharply, "That's enough!" Glaring at Kinchloe, he spoke quietly, passionately. "You're **_both_** wrong!" Then turning to Saunders, he added, "**_And_** you're both acting like a couple of spoiled kids."

Both men looked momentarily nonplussed, then each stood down and waited for the senior officer to continue. "Saunders, what Kinchloe said is true. We can't reveal the entirety of our operation until we have verified your identity. Will you allow us that much? I mean, before you shoot us?"

When Saunders glanced suspiciously from one to the other, Kinchloe rolled his eyes in frustration.

"Look, pal, you're an NCO," Kinchloe said, "or at least those stripes say you are. Unless they're just decorations on your sleeves, then you know that the colonel can't just show you our operation without first checking to make sure that you are who you say you are." He paused, glaring at the junior noncom. "Besides, we still need to contact the doctor to go pay your wounded friend a house call." At Saunders look of surprise, Kinchloe plunged in for the kill. "Well, what will it be?"

Saunders held the senior noncom's dark eyes until, at last, he slowly lowered the weapon.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/0630hrs local**

**Tunnel Under Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Saunders looked around the large, excavated open space below ground. He still felt amazed at the vast scope of the underground complex. He wondered about the kind of military operation that Hogan and his men were clandestinely involved in, knowing it had to be something big.

However, he would have to wait for any explanations, so he leaned on the table that held the radio transmitter/receiver and watched as Kinchloe expertly encoded the messages he was about to send. As he watched, he recalled the surprises of the past few hours and the more recent scene in Hogan's quarters...

* * *

Earlier Saunders had been persuaded to turn the tommygun over to Hogan. As expected, the senior officer had promptly handed it to Kinchloe.

Only after Saunders surrendered his weapon did he realize that the men on the other side of Hogan's door had been waiting for the word to storm it. The men forced the door open in a uniformed avalanche, and Saunders recognized the young man who had introduced himself as Carter as he tumbled inside.

Two others landed on top of him whom Saunders remembered as being the Frenchman LeBeau and RAF corporal Newkirk. Lying in a heap of arms and legs, three pairs of eyes blinked up at their commanding officer, expressions showing varying degrees of embarrassment and annoyance. Several more men crowded just inside the doorway.

"You okay, Colonel?" Carter asked. He smiled uncertainly at his officer.

Hogan and Kinchloe glared down at them, Saunders noting that their eyes narrowing and jaws clenching in identical scowls. Simultaneously, they crossed their arms in similar gestures of annoyance.

"Newkirk, will you get your knee out of my ear?" LeBeau complained. Frowning, he turned and was about to say something further, when he saw Newkirk's look of warning. Slowly, the diminutive Frenchman's eyes followed Newkirk's. Swallowing, he looked up first at Hogan, then at Kinchloe and immediately closed his mouth.

Clearing his throat, Newkirk somehow managed to disentangle himself from the others and came slowly to his feet. "Uh--good to see you're all right there, Guv'nor," he said lamely. Hogan only shook his head in answer. By then LeBeau and Carter had also regained their feet.

Kinchloe looked over their shoulders at the rest of the men. "Okay, guys, break it up! The party's over." The other men slowly shuffled out of the door and back to the main room of the barracks. "You three clowns were a lot of help," Kinchloe grumbled.

"Our pleasure," Carter said with a smile. He gently punched Kinchloe on the arm. "Couldn't let a buddy down, could we?"

Kinchloe stared at Carter, read only genuine sincerity in his eyes, glanced wordlessly at Hogan who winked back in amusement, and then rolled his eyes. "Oh, yeah, Carter...you guys were really helpful," Kinchloe muttered.

"You're welcome," Carter said. He beamed at Newkirk and LeBeau who simply shook their heads.

Kinchloe handed the Thompson to Newkirk, who in turn looked like he was about to aim it at Saunders. However, Kinchloe laid a hand on Newkirk's arm and stopped him.

"That's enough, buddy. The colonel wants us to have him checked out." He held Newkirk's eyes steadily. "Why don't you put that thing back where it belongs before Schultz sees it and has a heart attack...?"

* * *

Now, Saunders watched, fascinated in spite of himself, as Kinchloe sent a coded signal. He listened to the almost musical beeps of the Teletype key as it tapped out its message in a series of dots and dashes. While Saunders was no novice in radio communications, he had neither felt the need nor desire to learn Morse Code. At the moment, he wished he knew or at least understood it.

Kinchloe quickly tapped out the message to the local Underground that they needed to send a doctor to the farmhouse.

"Message sent and received, Colonel," Kinchloe reported. He turned to Saunders. "They'll let us know your friend's condition as soon as the doctor returns and reports in."

Saunders nodded. "Thanks."

"Okay, Saunders...now it's your turn." Hogan came up beside Saunders and slapped him on the shoulder. "Name, rank, service number, and unit." He paused, shrugged and continued, "Any known birthmarks, how old you were when you had your first kiss, the name of the girl, her current address and phone number, if she has any sisters...you know, important stuff like that."

By the time Hogan was done, Kinchloe was sitting back with an amused smirk on his face. He caught Saunders' bemused expression and shook his head. "You've gotta understand, Saunders...we've been cooped up in this place for more than two years. Sometimes it's hard to remember what a girl looks like, much less how it feels to kiss one."

Hogan's eyes twinkled suddenly. "Speak for yourself, Sergeant! As you well know, I've had my moments." He winked knowingly at Saunders. "The kommandant's secretary is not exactly immune to my charms and has helped us in the past on a few occasions."

Kinchloe gave him a sour look. "Oh, yeah, Colonel, you've charmed her all right. At last count, she's taken us for two pounds of coffee, ten pairs of nylons, five pounds of chocolate, and--"

"Okay, stop already!" Hogan said, holding his hand up. He placed it over his heart and gave Kinchloe a pained expression. "Kinch...you sure know how to hurt a guy." There was a long pause in the conversation, and then both men burst out laughing. Again, Saunders was struck by the easy-going relationship between the colonel and sergeant. "Okay, buddy, get this young man's vitals. I've gotta get back upstairs and recheck those coordinates Tiger sent last week."

"Wilco, Papa Bear." Grinning, Kinchloe gave him a mock salute.

At his words, Saunders stared. "Did you say, **_'Papa Bear'_**?"

The other two went immediately silent. Kinchloe gave him a measured stare. "Yeah...so?"

Saunders shook his head. "No...it couldn't be," he said almost to himself. "It's too fantastic."

Hogan walked up to him. "What's too fantastic, Sergeant?"

Saunders looked into the senior officer's eyes. Gone were all traces of warm-heartedness and good humor. In its place Saunders detected an underlying layer of steel that the man generally kept expertly hidden. It was all beginning to make sense--if anyone could call it that.

Until this moment, Saunders could not put his finger on what made the colonel tick. He was starting to understand.

"During one of the stops the POW train made, I met an airman assigned to the Eighth Air Force. He mentioned some guy, codenamed 'Papa Bear,' whose exploits more closely resembled a comic book hero than a living, breathing human being: Demolitions behind enemy lines, helping downed flyers, other kinds of covert ops." He shrugged. "You know, the kind of heroic stuff that gets passed around and grows until it's more like a myth or legend." He looked at the senior noncom and officer for their reaction. Neither man looked pleased.

"Sounds like you've become famous, Colonel," Kinchloe said sourly.

"Yeah, just what I need," Hogan returned sardonically, "to be famous while I'm trying to run a secret operation."

"Then what they said is true--?" Saunders began.

"What do you mean 'they'?" Kinchloe asked. "I thought you said you spoke to one airman?"

"There was an RAF corporal who joined us and confirmed the airman's story," Saunders explained. "They made it sound as if the story is well known by all the flyboys. And each said that if he should ever escape, he'd try to find his way to 'Papa Bear' who was known to help downed flyers get back to their lines." He paused, shaking his head. "Incidentally, Papa Bear is supposed to operate out of Stalag 13 under the very noses of the Germans."

Grinning, he looked from one to the other. "Can you believe that? They really think that--" Neither Hogan nor Kinchloe were grinning back. Saunders stopped abruptly and closed his eyes. Coming to a sudden realization, he took a deep breath. "And we're currently located underneath a German POW camp, aren't we? And you're running some kind of covert operations out of it, directly under the enemies' noses."

"Sergeant Saunders, meet Papa Bear," Kinchloe said ironically.

"So those fantastic stories are all true," Saunders could not quite keep the awe out of his voice as he looked from one to the other.

"Except the part about being faster than a speeding bullet or more powerful than a locomotive," Kinchloe said.

"Well, now that the sergeant here knows almost everything that there is know about us," Hogan said, "how about he return the favor and tell us a little about himself. Kinch, take care of our young sergeant here." At Kinchloe's nod, the senior officer turned to go. Pausing, he looked back at Saunders, the normal twinkle in his eyes having returned. "By the way, Sergeant Saunders, welcome to Stalag 13. It's a little drab, but we call it home."

End of Part 4


	5. Chapter 5

_**Summary**: Saunders hears some devastating news; Doc and Caje are forced to hide from Germans._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "/Dialogue./" _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

**Copyright**: December 2005 **

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1000hrs local**

**Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Saunders stood respectfully in a quiet corner in Hogan's quarters. Kinchloe had already reported that Papa Bear's contact in London verified the identities of Saunders, Doc, and Caje, stating that the three men had been reported Missing In Action six days ago following the shelling of Ville-Orne, France.

In addition, Kinchloe reported that the doctor had checked on Caje and reassured Saunders that the native from Louisiana was on the road to recovery. With plenty of rest and regular meals, Caje should be ready to travel in another few days or so.

For the moment, Hogan decided it was best to leave Caje and Doc in the farmhouse under Anna's tender care. Apparently, Anna was one of the many small cogs in Hogan's vast Underground network, generally supplying a hot meal and safe room for the night to downed flyers who were being returned to Allied lines. Saunders was not happy about remaining separated from his men, but understood the need to leave them in place for the moment.

As the morning progressed, he had had the unusual privilege of watching the interaction between Hogan and his men. While the enlisted men were generally respectful of their commanding officer, no one stood on ceremony. In fact, they were quite casual in addressing Hogan, who in turn, appeared genuinely interested in his men's input. Furthermore, he seemed to relish bantering with them, keeping the atmosphere easy and relaxed.

Their current discussion was quite open and animated. However, Saunders noted that Corporal Newkirk came a little too close to showing signs of possible disrespect. Saunders' instinct was to step in and dress him down, but a quick glance at Hogan told him that it would not be necessary.

"Begging the colonel's pardon," Newkirk said, "but I think you've finally gone round the bend. The munitions factory that Tiger wants us to take out is at least fifty kilometers away. Why doesn't London authorize a bombing mission, instead?"

"You've already heard _mon colonel_, Newkirk," LeBeau growled. "The dirty, filthy _**Bosche**_ are holding several hostages in that factory--men, women, and children from different conquered nations, including France!" He glared at Newkirk. "The bombers will take out the factory, but they will also kill the hostages. You want that on your conscience?"

"Louis, that's not what I meant--"

"All right, hold it, fellas!" Hogan interrupted. "LeBeau, Newkirk's right."

"He is?" "I am?" LeBeau and Newkirk asked almost simultaneously.

Saunders felt a cold, sinking feeling at Hogan's words. He remembered a similar situation not too long ago in which a young girl and an old man lost their lives trying to help in the rescue of several French children who were being held hostage by the Germans. It looked like even in their own country, the Krauts did not know how to play fair.

"I'm afraid so, Louis," Hogan was saying. "Look, I don't want those hostages' lives on my conscience, either. But we've got to destroy that munitions plant. HQ is giving us twenty-four hours to come up with a plan to neutralize it and save the civilians. If we don't succeed within the time allotted, then--" He gazed into LeBeau's eyes and shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry, LeBeau." He looked at Newkirk and Carter. "Sorry, fellas."

LeBeau looked down and nodded resignedly. "_Oui, mon colonel_," he murmured. "I understand."

Carter and Newkirk followed suit. "We know you'll do all you can, Colonel," Carter said, giving his commanding officer an encouraging smile.

At that moment, Kinchloe burst in. "Just received a message from Rumplestilskin, Colonel." Without further explanation, he handed it to Hogan. Glancing at Saunders, Kinchloe gave him a look devoid of expression. After a moment, he turned back to Hogan.

"How long ago?" Hogan's voice was barely above a whisper.

"Less than twelve hours," Kinchloe said. "Our guys came across them, just outside of Spess-Am-Mainz--"

"Hey! We passed that place about ten kilometers west of where we bailed out of the train," Saunders said, stepping forward.

Kinchloe looked at Hogan, who held his eyes for a long moment. "Tell him," Hogan said with a nod. Kinchloe was about to begin, but Hogan interrupted him. "No, wait...I should be the one." He nodded to the door, indicating he wanted his men to leave the room. As Kinchloe made a move to follow them, Hogan stopped him with a shake of the head.

The senior NCO sighed and turned back. Crossing his arms, he leaned against Hogan's bunk, waiting for his CO to make the first move.

"Saunders, take a seat," Hogan ordered, indicating a battered straight-backed chair.

Not liking the serious tone in Hogan's voice, nor the absence of any of the senior officer's easy-going lightheartedness, Saunders did as ordered. He looked up at the senior officer, waiting for whatever news he was about to break.

"Saunders, members of one of our Underground cells--" Hogan began.

"So you people really are involved in covert ops," Saunders said. Then realizing he had just interrupted a full colonel, quickly apologized. "Sorry, sir."

Hogan nodded. "That's quite all right, Sergeant. As I was saying, members of one of our underground cells were returning from a mission in the Spess forest, when they discovered..." He stopped, looking away momentarily. Sighing, he turned back to Saunders. "They discovered the remains of ten Allied soldiers." He stopped again, swallowing. "They had all been machine-gunned to death, and--" Hogan walked toward his window and stared out. At last, he spoke without turning. "Their hands were tied behind their backs."

"What?" Saunders asked raggedly. "But why? I don't understand?"

"Who knows why, Saunders?" Kinchloe snapped. "The fact is the Krauts did it!" He glared at Hogan's back. "It smacks of SS death squads, Colonel."

Hogan nodded.

"Sir?" Saunders spoke tentatively. When he did not continue, Hogan turned to him. "Do we have any ID on the--on the dead? Were they some of men who escaped with us?"

Hogan nodded. "Yes, Saunders...I'm afraid so."

If Saunders had not been sitting already, his legs would have given out on him. Bringing his hand up, he covered the naked pain in his face. "Who were they?" he asked at last.

"They were Privates Anderson, Robinson, Butler and Jenkins--" Hogan recited softly.

With each name a face flashed before Saunders' eyes: smiling, joking, serious, worried. All young and hopeful. All eager to get back to friendly lines.

"--Corporals Dickinson and DuBois--"

"Did you say 'Dickinson'?" Saunders demanded, hoping he had misheard. At Hogan's nod, the sergeant's shoulders slumped, remembering the lighthearted Englishman. "He was a good man."

Hogan exchanged glances with Kinchloe. Neither man wanted to continue, but Saunders had to hear it all in order to put the tragedy behind him. Giving a mental sigh, Hogan went on with his painful recitation. "Privates Johnson, Baker, and Thompson..." He swallowed, but determinedly finished. "...and Private First Class Liebowitz--"

Keeping his eyes fixed in a faraway point, Saunders spoke softly, his voice ragged. "Liebowitz just turned nineteen last week." He finally looked up at Hogan. "The escape was my idea, Colonel. And now they're dead." He stood abruptly. "They're dead, and it's my fault!"

"And how do you figure that, Saunders?" Kinchloe asked.

"They would still be alive **_right now_** if I hadn't talked them into escaping. 'It's our duty as soldiers,' I said. 'Our **_duty_**...'" he muttered, his self-disgust evident. "The Kraut officer in charge of the train told us that the war was over for us. I should've listened to him! But no...! I had this glorious idea of mounting a massive escape and giving the Krauts a black eye! And now look what happened." Saunders walked slowly to the window and stood staring out, seeing the men's faces as they prepared to jump into the waiting darkness. "I led them to their deaths."

Hogan walked up next to Saunders and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. "You didn't kill them, Saunders. The Krauts did...and I promise you that before this is over, we'll find the ones who did it." Saunders turned and faced Hogan, the colonel's dark brown eyes boring into his own. "And when we do...they'll pay."

After a long moment, Saunders finally nodded, accepting Hogan's promise. "So, what happens now, Sir?"

"I'm afraid, Saunders," Hogan began, "that until further notice, Hogan's Triple-'A' Travelers' Aid Society is officially suspended."

"But why, sir?" Saunders asked. "The Krauts don't know about your operation. Why stop now?"

"Because, my dear, Sergeant Saunders," Hogan said blandly, "the Gestapo is now aware of the escape. They are probably out at this very moment, combing the vast Bavarian forests, conducting a massive manhunt. That means, Sergeant, that all Underground activity is halted until further notice."

Saunders nodded, then his expression somber asked what was uppermost on his mind. "I don't understand, Colonel. If the Krauts recaptured those men, why execute them? What purpose could that serve?"

"The first question is standard operating procedure for the Krauts. They don't like mass escapes because it makes them look bad. Also, it tends to tie up much of their resources because they're forced to look for and apprehend the escapees."

Pausing for a moment, Hogan took out a cigar from an inside pocket in his leather jacket. Offering one to Saunders, who turned it down, he took a moment to light it and another to puff it with obvious pleasure. He gave Kinchloe an appreciative grin. "The best our good kommandant has managed to get his hands on yet."

As Saunders grew increasingly impatient, Hogan finally attempted to answer the second question. "As to what purpose their murder could serve...? Your guess, Sergeant, is as good as mine, I'm afraid. By disposing of the bodies in the forest, the Krauts aren't exactly advertising their actions."

"On the other hand," Kinchloe broke in, "they made no effort to conceal the fact that the prisoners were shot with their hands tied behind their backs--"

"Which makes the whole affair smack of some kind of message," Hogan surmised. "But to whom and for what purpose?" He shook his head.

"Instill fear, maybe?" Kinchloe offered.

"Fear?" Saunders asked.

Hogan shrugged. "It's purely guesswork, mind you, but if word of this got back to the front lines or even the POW camps, imagine the fear that it could strike in the hearts of the average G.I."

Kinchloe nodded. "I think you're right, Colonel. I mean, it's bad enough that there's always the possibility of being taken prisoner, but to get shot in the back for trying to escape...? It sure would cut down on the number of escape attempts, that's for sure."

"It could also result in **_our_** guys taking no prisoners," Saunders snapped, "or even in retaliating against those they've already captured." He shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense."

"You're right, Saunders, it doesn't," Hogan agreed.

"But whoever said that anything the Krauts' do **_makes_** sense?" Kinchloe added rhetorically.

"So...now what?" Saunders asked. "If my guys and I wanted to stay behind barbed wire for the Duration, we wouldn't have tried to escape. The last thing we want is to trade one prison for another."

"Don't worry, Saunders," Hogan said. "I keep telling Kinch here that worrying is **_my_** department, but he never listens." He shook his head regretfully. "Nobody respects officers any more--"

"Colonel!" Newkirk suddenly stuck his head in. "Begging your pardon, sir, but goons driving in the front gate! Looks like Major Hochstetter!"

At the RAF corporal's words, Hogan and Kinchloe immediately rushed to the outer room. Fighting their way to the door, the senior men were stuck midway in a crowd of prisoners all scrambling for the door. Suddenly, a booming voice no one recognized sounded off: "All right you clowns, make a hole!" The crowd of men suddenly parted like the Red Sea.

Hogan and Kinchloe turned, open-mouthed, to the source--Saunders. Giving the junior NCO a thumbs-up, Hogan and Kinchloe turned to the door. Opening it a crack to take a peek, they both stood still, wordlessly observing whatever was happening outside. Finally, Newkirk spoke up.

"Colonel Hogan, if you don't tell us what's going on soon, some of us are liable to push you out of the way...**_Sir_**."

"Not much happening yet, Newkirk," Hogan murmured. "Just ol' Smiley doing his usual ranting and raving act."

"Yeah, and Klink letting him walk all over him like always," Kinchloe added. "Uh-oh...they're heading into Klink's office."

"Quick, fellas," Hogan said. "The coffeepot! Kinch?"

Kinchloe nodded. "On it, Colonel!"

With those cryptic words, the men who seemed to make up the core of Hogan's team hurriedly preceded him back into his office. At the door, Hogan paused and looked at Saunders. "Coming, Sergeant?" He smiled at the young sergeant's look of surprise. "We're getting used to your presence, Saunders." A thoughtful look came over him while regarding the junior NCO. "You know, if you're not careful, you just might make yourself indispensable. Who knows...if that were to happen, we might decide to keep you."

Saunders did not bother to answer the senior officer; however, the glare Saunders gave him said all he had to say.

Laughing, Hogan slapped him on the shoulder. "Just kidding, Sergeant! Honest. Well, maybe."

Saunders followed the highly decorated officer back into his office, all the while shaking his head. Hogan's irreverence continued to throw him off balance. He was used to his officers being standoffish and correctly military in their bearing. Yet, he knew that Hogan's leadership style was perfectly suited to the type of behind-the-lines mission that he commanded. More importantly, from Saunders' brief exposure to Hogan's operation, it was obvious that his men were loyal beyond measure and would follow him to Hell and back.

Considering Hogan's words about the possibility of his staying, Saunders began to wonder if it would be such a bad thing after all.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1000hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

Doc checked Caje's bandages again. He placed a cool, wet towel on the scout's forehead to bring down a low-grade fever that he was running. The local doctor had already come and gone. Thankfully, he had spoken English, so Doc was able to easily communicate with him. His examination of Caje had allayed most of Doc's fears; however, Caje's wound had developed a slight infection, and this had resulted in the fever. Doc's primary focus at the moment was to keep the wound clean and the fever down.

The doctor had prescribed what he could to fight the infection, but not unexpectedly, his stock of medical supplies was running low. He informed Doc that Papa Bear had promised a shipment soon, but that these things took time.

"These things take time, all right," Doc muttered, angrily wringing out excess water from the towel before replacing it on Caje's forehead. "Sure...we can always get more bullets and invent new ways to kill and maim, but new medicines--? Supplies needed to help the sick and the wounded--? Those 'take time.'" Speaking softly, soothingly, his words belied the comforting tone in which he delivered them. "I sure would like to know who this 'Papa Bear' is, wouldn't you, Caje? I know if I ever do, I sure will give him a piece of my mind."

At Doc's words, Caje moaned in his sleep, stirring slightly. Afraid that his patient might tear his stitches open again, Doc held him down gently but firmly.

"Oh, no, you don't, buddy," he said, his voice quietly insistent. "We don't want you to go and ruin all of that good doctor's fine work, now...do we?"

As he spoke, Doc ran his hand soothingly across Caje's forehead, combing back his dark hair. After a few minutes of his gentle ministrations, Doc's words and actions had their desired effect. His feverish friend at last quieted down.

"I don't want you to worry none, Caje...Sarge'll think of something. You know he always does. 'Fore you know it, he'll be here--right outside that door--with a plan to get us home."

"You have much faith in your sergeant," Anna said from the doorway. She was carrying a covered tray. Doc stared at her, open-mouthed. These were the first English words that she had spoken to him.

"Y-you speak English?" His tone was more accusatory than surprised. "Well, why haven't you--? I mean...why wait till now--?"

Anna had the grace to look slightly abashed. "I am sorry. But until we received verification of your identities, I was obliged to pretend I could not understand your words. In case--"

"In case, I said something incriminating," Doc finished.

Eyes down, she nodded. "I am sorry for the caution, but you must understand...in our business, there is always the possibility of betrayal."

Doc nodded in understanding. "Look, there's no need to apologize. I reckon if I were in your place, I sure would've done the same thing. As it is, I'm right grateful for the risk you're obviously taking and for the help you've already given both me and my friend here."

Anna smiled her gratitude. When Doc returned the smile, she felt suddenly flustered and hastily handed the tray over to him to hide her embarrassment. "Here...y-you need to keep up your strength, too."

Smiling his thanks, Doc took the tray from her. "Thank you, Anna." The words did not seem like enough, Doc thought, but the young girl blushed furiously and hurriedly beat a retreat. After she left, Doc lifted the cloth covering and smiled in delight. Anna had prepared a hearty stew and homemade bread. Happily, Doc hungrily dug in.

Keeping a close eye on Caje, Doc somehow managed to finish his meal and soon was polishing the bowl with the remains of the bread. Stuffing it in his mouth, Doc stood to return the tray to the kitchen. He and Caje were located in one of the upstairs bedrooms. Bright and clean, the room was simply furnished: a bed, large wardrobe, single chair, washstand, and mirror. The shutters were open to let in sunlight and fresh air.

When he and two of the black-garbed men--the Englishman and Frenchman--had carried Caje up here, Doc had noted that the rest of the upstairs was similarly furnished. The steep and narrow flight of stairs opened up onto a small balconied hallway that oversaw the dayrooms below. The upstairs bedrooms were located on either side of the stairway, two rooms on each side. Surprisingly, Doc discovered that the house also had indoor plumbing and that a small bath was located at the very end of the hall.

Carefully navigating the steep stairs to the main room, Doc laid the tray on the kitchen counter. Searching for, he found some powdered soap and proceeded to wash his own dishes. In a short time, the bowl, spoon, and small bread plate were sparkling on the drain board, water droplets dripping onto the sink.

About to return to the room upstairs, Doc looked up startled by Anna's sudden appearance. She looked like she had been running, and her face was flushed.

"Anna, what's wrong?" Doc asked.

"Soldiers!" she hissed. "Quick! We must hide you!"

"Well, what about Caje?" Doc asked. "I can't just leave 'im there!"

"There is no time," Anna insisted. "They will be here any minute."

Doc shook his head. "No, I ain't leavin' Caje!" He did not wait for a reply; instead, Doc ran upstairs. Not pausing, he came up to the bed Caje was lying on and began insistently slapping the sleeping man on the face.

"Come on, Caje...wake up, buddy!" he muttered. "Krauts! We gotta go!"

At last, Caje's eyelids fluttered open; however, he stared vacantly to a spot on the ceiling, obviously confused about his surroundings.

"Caje! Caje, can you hear me?" Doc asked sharply.

"Doc...?" Caje's questioning answer was all the incentive Doc needed.

"That's right, ol' buddy," Doc said. "It's Doc all right. Just you'n me, pal."

"Sarge?" Caje whispered.

"Sarge ain't here, Caje," Doc said quietly. "But he'll be back. He promised."

Eyes closed, Caje's pain-filled face softened slightly with a smile. "...Always...keeps his...promises..."

"Darned right, buddy. So, don't you go off and fret none. Ol' Doc here has everything under control."

Working quickly, Doc did not have time to be gentle. Lifting Caje to a sitting position, Doc maneuvered him until his legs were hanging over the side of the bed. Spotting the wardrobe, Doc hastily opened it, examined its contents and mentally measured it, determining that it could hold a single man.

Going back to Caje, Doc got him to his feet, all the while keeping a running commentary on what he was doing.

"Caje, ol' buddy...we got Krauts heading this way. I gotta hide you. Come on, now...we gotta hurry."

Caje nodded. "Krauts..." he murmured.

"Caje, you gotta help now," Doc said quietly. "I can't carry you, so you'll have to walk a little. Think you can do that?"

Again, Caje made a small, jerky movement with his head, signaling his understanding.

"Good boy!" Doc said, guiding him slowly toward the open wardrobe.

Standing before it, Caje blinked rapidly, working to clear his blurred vision. At last, he was able to make out the contents of the wardrobe and its relative size. Shaking his head, he tried to back off. "Too small," he protested. "Not...'nuff room...for us..."

"Hey! Who's the doctor here?" Doc replied. "Don't worry 'bout me, Caje. I've got a hiding place all figured out. But we can't stay together. There's no way you can make it down those steep stairs. So, quit double-guessing me and let's get you inside."

While Doc had been talking, Caje had been shaking his head and weakly fighting him. Now, he was too exhausted to struggle and reluctantly surrendered to the inevitable.

Doc situated him as comfortably as possible and was about to make sure that the hanging clothes covered him completely when Caje grabbed his wrist. "Promise...you'll be okay."

"I promise, buddy," Doc said gently. "I'll be back before you know it. Now you make me a promise..." Caje opened his tired, pain-filled eyes and looked directly into Doc's. "Promise me that you'll stay here, without making a sound--no matter what happens."

Caje did not like the sound of that and was about to protest, but Doc pressed him. "Promise!"

At last, Caje nodded weakly, closing his eyes. "I promise..." With that, his head dropped onto his chest, unconscious.

Doc heard the knocking downstairs--more like banging, he decided. Hurriedly making up the bed, Doc took the tray holding Caje's medications and slid it under the bed. He did likewise with the water bowl and wet towel. Satisfied that the room looked unoccupied, he stepped softly to the door.

From his vantage point, he could clearly see Anna at the open door. On the other side of the door, all he could make out were two pairs of highly polished jackboots. Taking this as his only chance, Doc moved quickly down the small balconied hallway, crossing to the bedrooms on the opposite side of the stairs.

Glancing in the first, he was disappointed to see that it didn't include a wardrobe like the one Caje was now in. Going to the second, he paused long enough to hear the Germans enter and begin searching the house downstairs. A cursory examination told him that this room also would not afford him a hiding place.

Closing the door, he stood uncertainly over what to do. Spotting the small bathroom at the far end, he hurried noiselessly there. Opening the door, he stepped in and quickly shut it behind him. It was much too small: A bathtub with no privacy curtain, toilet, and sink.

About to give up, Doc's eyes fell on a small window directly above the bathtub. Not pausing to consider what he was about to do, he climbed onto the bathtub's rim and reached for the window. Urged on by the sound of jackboots pounding up the stairs, Doc hurriedly opened the window.

Taking a quick look around to see that the coast was clear, he quietly slipped through the narrow opening. Closing the window behind him, Doc carefully moved at a low crouch across the thatched roof, unsure whether it could hold his weight. At last, he reached the chimney along one of the house's long gables and huddled against it.

Making himself as small as possible, Doc waited tensely and prayed.

End of Part 5


	6. Chapter 6

_**Summary**: Saunders finds out what the Heroes' coffeepot is for._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "Dialogue." _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1_

**Copyright**: December 2005 **

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1045hrs local**

**Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Saunders watched bemused as Kinchloe quickly assembled an innocuous coffeepot. He wondered at the others' expectant looks. The young sergeant, Carter, even appeared to be holding his breath. Saunders turned to Hogan with a questioning look.

"Coffee? You rushed over here to make coffee?" Saunders peered from one man to another. Each, in turn, watched Kinchloe's deft fingers as he deliberately assembled the coffeepot in his hands. The same look of worried anticipation was stamped on their faces.

"Come on, Kinch!" Newkirk whined, looking anxiously over Kinchloe's shoulder. "Can't you put the bloody thing together any faster?"

"Take it easy, Newkirk." Hogan spoke softly, but Newkirk immediately backed off.

Saunders could only shake his head. They must really need their caffeine fix, he thought darkly. Standing to the rear, he observed silently as Kinchloe ran an electric cord to a single, naked bulb that hung from the ceiling.

His eyes on Newkirk, Kinchloe cocked a single eyebrow, and holding the coffeepot in his hands recited softly, "Newkirk, as the Good Book says, 'To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven...'"

"Kinch, for heaven's sake--!" Newkirk cried impatiently.

Kinchloe calmly ignored Newkirk, and grinning turned the lid on the coffeepot in a counterclockwise direction. "'...A time to keep silence, and a time to speak.'"

With that, and to Saunders' astonishment, the coffeepot began to 'speak'!

_"**Klink**! This entire camp is now under the command of the Gestapo--!_"

"Ol' Smiley's at it again," Hogan quipped.

_"But surely, Major Hochstetter,"_ Klink's voice came over the speaker,_ "the Gestapo can commandeer any POW camp in the local military district. I have an idea...the_ _POW train was scheduled to deliver the prisoners to Nuremberg. Why not operate out of there--?"_

_"Klink, you're not being paid to think. There aren't enough Reichmarks in all the Fatherland for that--!"_

_"Why thank you, Major," _Klink began but was interrupted.

_"That wasn't a compliment, you idiot!"_

_"No, of course not," _Klink said, sounding deflated. _"Not a compliment."_

_"**Shut up, Klink**!"_

"Hochstetter sounds like he's about to have a coronary," Newkirk murmured.

"_Oui_...his usual condition whenever he speaks with Klink," LeBeau agreed.

"Quiet, you two," Kinchloe growled.

_"Over forty-eight enemy prisoners escaped and are even now running around the German countryside. I have reports from my field agents informing me that we are pulling them out of haylofts, basements, caves--anywhere the vermin can find a hiding place."_

_"Yes, of course, Major,"_ Klink said eagerly. _"The Gestapo, I am sure is doing a marvelous job--"_

_"Shut up, Klink!"_ Hochstetter shouted again. _"We will be using Stalag 13 as a temporary holding pen for the prisoners. Once we have them all accounted for, they will be tried for crimes against the Third Reich and shot!"_

"**_What_** crimes against the Third Reich?" Carter asked.

_"**What** crimes against the Third Reich?"_ Klink asked.

_"Klink, we have to search for these enemy soldiers with men that are desperately needed in the Front. Such insolence cannot go unpunished! Therefore, the men that have been recaptured will be transported to Berlin where they will face an immediate firing squad--for illegal acts of sabotage against the Reich._ _But before we do that--"_ The rest of Hochstetter's words were lost in the din that followed his statement.

"He cannot do that!" LeBeau protested.

"That's against the bloody Geneva Convention," Newkirk added.

"Pipe down, you clowns!" Kinchloe snapped. "We can't hear what Hochstetter's saying!"

_"Illegal acts--!" _Klink spluttered_. "But surely, Major Hochstetter, the prisoners were only doing their duty--to attempt to escape back to their own lines?"_

_"Klink! I've told you already...prisoners of the Fatherland **have** no rights--except those that **the Gestapo **wishes to give them!" _Hochstetter was nearing his boiling point_. "They sabotaged the train they were on in order to effect an escape. That makes them guilty of crimes against the Reich! Don't you agree?"_

_"Well, uh--" _Hogan could almost picture Hochstetter's usual crazed look, intimidating the hapless Klink into agreeing with him. Hogan rolled his eyes as Klink's timid voice again came over the speaker. _"Of course, when you put it that way, Major--?"_

_"I did," _Hochstetter growled_. "And not that it matters, of course, Klink...but should you insist again that these enemies of the Reich have rights, then it will be my pleasure to let you join them. **In front of the firing squad!**"_

Instead of letting the matter drop, to Hogan's surprise Klink again spoke up, if somewhat hesitantly.

_"Major Hochstetter,"_ Klink began uneasily. _"What you speak of...I don't believe that it is entirely legal. I mean, using POWs as hostages at the ammunition factory and then shooting them--!"_

"Hostages--?" Newkirk began, but was immediately shushed by Kinchloe.

_"Klink, what you believe is of no importance!" _Hochstetter ranted._ "Of course, if you wish to write a formal letter of complaint to Gestapo Headquarters, I will gladly deliver it for you."_

_"You will?"_ Klink sounded pathetically eager.

_"Yes! **Along with your head**!"_

The next sound the men heard was a door opening and slamming shut. Carter ran to the barracks outer door and looked out. A minute later, he returned.

"Hochstetter just drove out of camp, Colonel," he reported.

"Colonel, did we hear right?" Kinchloe spoke quietly. "Did Klink say that Hochstetter was going to use our guys as hostages at the ammo factory?"

Hogan nodded, his eyes focused somewhere faraway.

"_Colonel_, what are we to do?" LeBeau asked.

"Yeah, Colonel," Newkirk chimed in. "We can't just sit back while the Gestapo executes our blokes or uses them as cannon fodder for the Allied bombers--which basically amounts to the same thing."

Kinchloe walked up to Hogan and murmured in his ear. "For once, Newkirk has a point, Colonel."

Again, Hogan nodded. "I know, Kinch...I know." Straightening up, he looked from one of his men to another. "Okay, fellas...what are we standing around for? We've got a lot of work to do!" He surveyed each man in turn. "Newkirk--standard SS uniforms. Make me a colonel, you an NCO, and Carter a private."

Newkirk nodded decisively and said, "On it, Colonel!" and moved out.

Hogan turned to Carter. "Carter, we'll need thermite grenades to cut through--"

"You **_bet_**, boy!" Carter said excitedly. "Uh, I--um…I mean, you bet, Colonel! **_Boy_**! Have I got some **_doozies_** for you! And-- He paused, blushing proudly. "--I've made some modifications of my own to the thermites we received a few weeks ago, and if I do say myself…what we have now is a far more powerful incendiary device than--"

"That's terrific, Carter," Hogan said hastily. "I'm sure I'll be happy with whatever modifications you've done--"

"Sir, if you want, I could rig a special device in something as small as fountain pen and--" Carter went on eagerly.

Nodding in exaggerated understanding, Hogan placed his hands on the younger NCO and determinedly pushed him toward the door. "Surprise me, Carter," he said, closing the door on Carter's face. Turning back to Kinchloe, he shook his head. "That boy really worries me sometimes, Kinch."

"Only sometimes?" Kinchloe asked sardonically.

"_Colonel?_" Hogan turned to LeBeau who was still awaiting his instructions. The diminutive Frenchman shrugged expansively. "Is there anything you wish **_me_** to do?" He paused, unsure about how to proceed. Finally, his eyes downcast, he said what was on his mind. "You did not order Newkirk to make a Kraut uniform for me, _mon colonel_." He looked up. "Does this mean that I must stay behind?"

Hogan held the smaller man's eyes for a beat before answering. Shaking his head sadly, he spoke, "Louis, if things go as I think they will, you won't be sitting this one out. Although I wish to God that I could say otherwise." At LeBeau's questioning look, Hogan held his hand up to stop him from asking anything further. "Not now, LeBeau. I'm not ready to give any specifics."

LeBeau nodded in disappointment. "_Oui, mon, colonel_." He started for the door, but Hogan stopped him.

"Louis, why don't you fix us one of your famous gourmet dinners?" He indicated Saunders. "Our guest here is probably half-starved by now."

At his colonel's suggestion that he prepare a meal, LeBeau's previously crestfallen expression changed dramatically. "_Oui, colonel_! I have enough ingredients to prepare a _châteaubriand_ that is to-die-for!" Turning to Saunders, he added, "Sergeant, you have not lived until you have tasted a _châteaubriand_ by Chef Louis LeBeau!"

"I'll go monitor the radio, Colonel," Kinchloe said quietly. Grabbing LeBeau by the arm, he smoothly steered him out the door.

As the others broke away, Saunders approached Hogan who had taken out several maps from a storage compartment hidden between the floorboards. "Excuse me, sir, but what about my men?"

"What about them, Saunders?" Hogan asked distractedly. He was concentrating on the map before him.

"**_I'll_** tell you what about them!" Saunders snapped. "This Hochstetter guy says that they're planning on using any recaptured prisoners as hostages, and then they're going to **_shoot_** them! **_That's_** what!" Uncharacteristically insubordinate, Saunders pushed himself in front of Hogan to get his full attention.

"I've fought side-by-side with those men since D-Day! They're **_good_** soldiers! **_And_** my friends. It was **_your_** idea that I leave them behind until it was safe for Caje to travel. Well, it isn't safe for them to stay out there any longer." Saunders glared at the senior officer, not caring that he had crossed a line. "Now are we going back for them or not?"

Hogan's usually warm, twinkling eyes glittered like ice crystals as they pierced through Saunders. The Colonel and Sergeant glowered at each other, neither moving, holding the tableau for a long minute. Unexpectedly, Kinchloe walked in and inadvertently broke the tension that had built between them.

Saunders stepped aside, shoulders slumped, waiting for the axe to fall. Not only would he be ordered to abandon his men, he would probably also face disciplinary action. Pressing against the bunk bed, he tried to stop the spiraling emotions that were warring within him. Everything that had happened in the past week was his fault. He had to do something, but what?

"This is how I look at it, Kinch," Hogan was saying. "If we can ambush the truck convoy transporting the POWs before they're brought here to camp, then we can hide the prisoners until we can make arrangements for a sub to pick them up."

Saunders tensed, listening to Hogan's quiet voice as he mapped out his plan.

"Sounds good so far, Colonel," Kinchloe murmured. "But what if we can't stop the convoy?"

Hogan sighed. "Let's hope we don't have to cross that bridge."

"Colonel…what if we can't…?" Kinchloe left the rest unsaid.

Hogan sighed. "Then we try to break them out of the ammunition plant before our bombers demolish it."

"And what of my men?" Saunders asked with quiet insistence.

"As soon as it's dark," Kinchloe began, "me and a couple others will go to the farmhouse and get 'em out."

"Kinch, you'll have to exercise extreme caution," Hogan said quietly. "The area will be full of Krauts…and not the Stalag 13 garden-variety type, but the real deal: Gestapo and SS."

"I know...that's why Newkirk volunteered to go with me," Kinchloe replied straight-faced. "Only, he doesn't know it yet."

"And I'm goin' along, too," Saunders said flatly. Not waiting for a reply, he stalked out of Hogan's quarters and headed toward the hidden tunnel entrance.

"Infantry," Kinchloe muttered as the younger man disappeared through the door. The single word, uttered as an expletive, covered all the oddities and unnatural characteristics of men who actually **_walked_** into battle and engaged the enemy in face-to-face conflict.

Catching Hogan's eyes, Kinchloe grinned. "I'll bet he's hell on wheels as a squad leader. Think we can keep him?"

Hogan rolled his eyes. "You said mouthful, buddy--**_Infantry_**! Give me a squadron of B-17s any day. And, yeah…I think it could be arranged for our young friend to remain here."

Grinning, Hogan returned to his mission planning.

End of Part 6


	7. Chapter 7

_**Summary**: Doc is capture; Caje relives previous events; Kinchloe has an unexpected visitor._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German/"Dialogue."/_

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

_**Copyright**: December 2005_

**

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1045hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

Keeping low, Doc watched the farmyard down below from the rooftop as German soldiers searched the premises.

"With their usual ham-handedness," he muttered. The next instant, Anna was dragged outside and forced to stand in the midst of the destruction taking place before her. Doc caught sight of her tear-stained cheeks and had to fight an impulse to go and help her.

They treat their own people no better than they do the French civilians, he realized. Shaking his head, Doc wondered how the Krauts might treat escaped prisoners once they recaptured them. He did not care for the possibilities.

Anna stood stoically by as the soldiers kicked over storage bins for no apparent reason, knocked over the chicken coop, and did who knew what inside the barn and house. Doc cringed as he heard the sounds of breakage coming from within the house and the panicked cries of draft animals from the barn. He thought about the wardrobe in which Caje was hiding. It would only take one alert Kraut to discover him.

Doc felt guilty that all he could do was sit back and wait, unable to offer any help. Then, Anna did something that filled him with a sudden sense of determination. She lifted her chin in a simple act of defiance against her tormentors. She said nothing; however, the underlying contempt she felt for the soldiers was clearly understood.

An arrogant officer stepped out of the farmhouse at this moment. He called out a few terse commands, and his men quickly stopped what they were doing, lining up single file. The officer turned to Anna, clicking his heels and bowing slightly

"_Danke, Fraulein_," he said blandly. "_Auf Wiedersehen_."

Anna gave him a curt nod in reply.

The officer spun on his heel, called out a crisp command, and the German reconnaissance patrol moved out.

Relieved beyond measure, Doc felt his body suddenly give out, and he collapsed in place. He leaned back on the chimney, afraid that his legs would not be able to hold him should he try to stand. Deciding that the coast was clear, he emerged from behind the chimney and began his slow crawl back to the window.

As luck would have it, a trio of German soldiers that must have been left behind chose this moment to emerge from the barn. Doc spotted them at the same time they saw him. He made a move toward the window, when the thatched roof exploded upwardly a few inches around him from a burst of semi-automatic fire. Facing the muzzles of three Mausers pointing directly at him, Doc held his hands out in mute surrender.

"Okay, hold your fire! I surrender!"

One of the Germans said something to him that Doc did not understand. To clarify his meaning, the enemy soldier gestured with his weapon. Doc instantly understood that the Kraut wanted him to climb off the roof.

Looking around for a ladder or some means to climb down, Doc could only shake his head. Yet the soldiers were insistent that he get down. Estimating the distance from the roof to the ground, Doc decided that he did not like his chances of emerging from this predicament alive, much less unscathed.

"Now, how am I supposed to get down there?" he asked himself. He did not have long to decide because one of the enemy soldiers looked abut ready to shoot him. Sighing, Doc scooted to the edge of the roof looking for a safe drop-off point. To his utter surprise, one of the Germans called out a warning, ran to the side of one of the outbuildings, and returned with a ladder.

Climbing down, Doc expressed his thanks. Nodding, the enemy soldier muttered, "_Bitte_," and then motioned with his weapon that Doc should precede him. Shoulders slumped, Doc sighed and did as ordered. Looking around, he tried to catch sight of Anna, but she was nowhere to be seen. He thought about Caje and his promise to him that he would return.

He wondered if he would be able to keep it.

**

* * *

Date/Time: Unknown**

**Place: Unknown**

* * *

The muted noises seeped insistently through the encompassing darkness: glass breaking amidst angry voices, the muffled sound of boots pounding on hardwood floors, and doors being kicked in. The din rolled in like an ocean wave, accompanied by the groans of ancient furniture being overturned and broken. Similarly, it receded into the distance, much as a ship disappears into the far horizon...

In his minds eye, Caje marveled at the blueness of the sky and the warmth of the late August sun. The local countryside lay verdant in its summer lushness, the ripe vineyards glistening on the surrounding hillsides.

The illusion was shattered as a sudden breeze picked up a ribbon of oily, black smoke and scattered its gray tendrils in the sky. The village, or what was left of it, was burning. Crouched behind the remains of a wall in the ruined village, Caje silently watched the deliberate approach of the enemy recon patrol, cringing at the swath of destruction it left in its wake.

The beauty of the summer day was lost on the Germans. As they trampled through the devastated village, they flushed out what buildings remained standing without bothering to check first for noncombatants. They methodically kicked down doors, tossed in grenades, waited for the explosion, and then raked the interior with machinegun fire.

Caje sighted his weapon on a Kraut who was about to repeat the process and fired. The enemy soldier dropped like a rock, but Caje was picking off his next target, having already forgotten the first man. All around him, the squad opened fire, sending a lethal fusillade downrange. Just as Caje squeezed off another deadly round, Saunders was suddenly next to him, slapping him on the shoulder to get his attention.

_"Pull back--wood line west of the village!" _

The next second, the Sarge was gone, passing the word to the others. Nelson, Littlejohn, and Kirby immediately began moving out in a well-practiced leapfrog maneuver. Saunders waved them past him, signaling Caje and Doc to follow him.

Caje waited for Doc to precede him, and then leaped to his feet, running as fast as his legs would carry him. Bullets exploded in front of him and behind him. He zigzagged to avoid getting hit. He saw Doc reach an alley ahead of him and turn to look back.

_"Hurry up!"_ Doc shouted, urging him on.

Galvanized, Caje pushed himself harder, the alley only a few yards beyond him. Less than five feet away, Caje suddenly felt something slam into him, spinning him in place as he fell forward.

The rest flashed before him as if through a broken lens: Hands reaching for him. Searing pain radiating from his shoulder. Long periods of darkness broken by brief glimpses of light.

Sarge's face loomed before him, his brow creased with worry. Doc appeared next to him, his compassionate eyes reflecting Sarge's concern.

_"How is he Doc?"_

_"Not too good...he needs a hospital..."_

"I'll live," he whispered in protest. But the guilt of being a burden to his friends lay heavy on him.

_"I'm not going with you, Sarge. I'll never make it."_

_"Hey, Caje, you listen to me,"_ Saunders said. _"You're coming with us, and we're **all** gonna make it. You **got** that?"_

Next, he heard Doc's soft, comforting voice urging him to remain quiet, promising to return.

_"Don't worry 'bout me, Caje. I've got a hiding place all figured out...I'll be back before you know it. Now you...promise me that you'll stay here, without making a sound--no matter what happens."_

Again, he was aware of an accompanying guilt for being a yoke around Doc's neck. I promiseDoc...

And always in the background, the continuous pounding noises, angry shouts, and earsplitting sounds of shattered glass grew ever closer...

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1045hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

The sudden shaft of light cutting across his eyes brought him back. The wardrobe's door had been yanked open. Caje held his breath as a hand reached in to push aside the clothes that were concealing him. A yell from somewhere outside the bedroom resulted in the hand being withdrawn, and its owner hurrying out.

Caje closed his eyes in relief as he heard the sounds of more boots retreating into the distance. Soon, only the silence remained--that and the sound of his rapidly beating heart.

He listened for Doc's soft, southern drawl, and the reassurance that everything was going to be all right. Try as he might, he could not hear Doc's voice. It did not take long for the guilt to once again envelop him.

Before long, darkness again laid claim to him.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1700hrs local**

**Tunnel Under Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Kinchloe sat at his station, monitoring the radio. Messages flashed over his headset, meant for other Underground cells. Some were gibberish to him, sent in codes that his group was not authorized. Others gave the green light to men and women to carry out missions that placed their lives in further danger. Still, he tuned in, feeling as if he were listening to the heartbeat of the secret war. He looked across the excavated 'room,' his eyes falling on a still figure lying on the lone cot.

Saunders lay stretched out, an arm tossed carelessly over his eyes. He had lain thus, practically unmoving for the past three hours. As luck would have it, at that very moment, Saunders' arm dropped to his side, revealing his troubled countenance. Mumbling in his sleep, Saunders tossed his head, turned on his side only to return to his original position, settling down once again into an uneasy sleep.

Kinchloe shook his head. The man was obviously not resting peacefully. What man could who had seen and done the things a combat veteran had in the course of his duties? Kinchloe himself oftentimes suffered from troubled dreams--dreams of bridges blowing while a train was still on it, of factories going up in a blaze glory with unsuspecting men still inside.

The number of sabotage missions was too high to keep track of, but each success Kinchloe knew came with a price, another bit of his soul forever lost to him. He wondered if eternal damnation awaited him after death. And yet, the alternative would be worse. For if Germany won the war, and the world fell permanently under its yoke, then he would not have to wait for death to see what Hell was like. It would be here on earth.

His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden yell from Saunders.

"Grady! On me! The rest of you--Caje, Nelson, Littlejohn--cover us. We're gonna flank 'em and get a couple of grenades in. Doc--keep your head down. Okay, Grady, stay low and stay behind me. Let's go!"

Kinchloe blinked in surprise. Saunders was obviously reliving an incident on the battlefield. His commands had been delivered both clearly and crisply with no sense of panic. He sounded in complete control of the situation. The next instant the tough noncom was replaced by a man who was suffering from the pain of loss.

"Grady, get down! Grady, no! No!" The sergeant tossed in his sleep, real tears streaming down his face. "Grady! Oh, God…why?" This last was a tortured whisper.

Kinchloe looked away, unable to bear the naked suffering on the younger man's face. He remembered the loss of Goldilocks, Hogan's pet B-17, and the rest of her crew. Out of a crew of ten, Hogan, Kinchloe, and Olsen had been the only three to survive her final mission. Kinchloe still saw the faces of the other seven in his sleep. From some of the cries he had heard coming from Hogan's quarters late at night, he knew that his commanding officer did, too.

But from up in the sky, the war had been a clean adventure. You flew in your formation, reached your target, dropped your load, and then returned home. If Lady Luck smiled upon you, your plane made it to the target destination and back. Sometimes when the Group came under attack, one or two of the B-17s went down, sometimes more. As the behemoths spiraled down in flames, the rest of the Group held its collective breath, watching out for parachutes.

It they were lucky, they counted ten, but more often than not, only a mere handful managed to jump to safety, only to face capture and a POW camp.

However, as a crewman on a B-17, Kinchloe never had to look a man in the eye before he killed him. He glanced over at the now still form. Not like Saunders and the rest of the foot soldiers who even now had to slog their way through France on their long haul toward Germany. Ironically, Kinchloe had not been forced to kill until he was shot down over Germany and became a prisoner of war.

Of course, Kinchloe should have figured that Colonel Hogan would not take to being a POW lightly. Instead of sitting out the war and waiting to be liberated, he had come up with this crazy scheme to run a covert operation under the enemy's very nose. For the most part, it was interesting and exciting work, if decidedly dangerous.

And while Kinchloe had tried not to fire his weapon directly at anyone, because as LeBeau had stated once, they were trying to fight a 'non-violent' war, eventually, he was forced to get his hands dirty. They all had been, and in each case, the man who had to kill for the first time while on a mission had suffered psychological scars.

He looked back at Saunders who again seemed to be sleeping soundly. The younger man's face was turned toward him, and to Kinchloe's surprise he appeared even younger than he had assessed. His impression of Saunders was that of a professional soldier, a combat veteran of several years, perhaps in his late twenties to mid-thirties. But now, he had to reevaluate his initial estimate.

The man lying in front of him could not be older than his early-to-mid twenties. He had probably not been in the Army before war broke out, living out his life in whatever midwestern town he had been raised.

Like me, Kinchloe said to himself. Only the war had obviously aged Saunders beyond his years. He hoped the younger man would live long enough to find peace after the war. Shaking his head, Kinchloe checked his watch, saw it was time to be relieved, and began completing his log. Finishing, he sat back, anxious to go topside and talk the guys into a game of volleyball, anything to relieve the stress.

The next instant all extraneous thoughts were forgotten. The silent alarm he had personally set up--a blinking light bulb--had just gone off. Jumping to his feet, he grabbed the pistol that always lay handy beside him and blew out the oil lamp. He moved up to the branch opening that led to the emergency exit, reached up and yanked on the pull cord that was attached to the blinking emergency bulb. Thus thrown into total darkness, Kinchloe waited.

He did not have long to wait. A sound like that of someone sobbing floated up from the tunnel, carried by the echoes bouncing off the close walls. It sounded as if someone were stumbling as he hurried through the tunnel toward him. With each fall, the sobs increased in volume.

"Help me...please," a soft, feminine voice called out. "Please…help me."

Kinchloe was about to pull the cord and turn on the light again, but his wrist was grasped in the dark.

"Don't!" the disembodied voice hissed. It took Kinchloe a moment to realize that the voice belonged to Saunders. Gone were any signs of the vulnerable kid he had seen lying on the cot. In its place the confident combat veteran had returned.

"Let 'em come to us," Saunders murmured in his ear.

Kinchloe nodded his understanding, realized Saunders could not see him, and whispered, "Wilco," in acknowledgement. They took up positions on either side of the entrance and waited. Whoever was in the tunnel must have decided that no help was immediately forthcoming and therefore began stumbling toward them again.

Kinchloe felt more than saw a dark figure cross the threshold. Before he could react, he heard a loud cry that was instantly muffled, accompanied by the sounds of a struggle. Kinchloe immediately reached up and yanked on the pull cord and blinked in the sudden brightness.

"Anna!" he cried in surprise.

"Kinch! Oh, Kinch--!" Anna cried tearfully, still struggling futilely in Saunders' iron grip.

"Let her go, Saunders," Kinchloe ordered.

"Not until she tells us what she's doing here."

"That is why I am here," Anna sobbed. "The soldiers--SS! They came to the farm--" Unable to go on, she broke down again.

"My friends!" Saunders broke in, spinning her around, facing him. "What happened to them?" When the girl did not answer right away, Saunders shook her violently. "Tell me! What happened to Doc and Caje?"

"Saunders!" Kinchloe snapped, making a grab for the girl. "I said let her go!"

"Not until she tells me what I want to know!" Saunders growled, giving the girl another shake.

Kinchloe reached for her, glaring at Saunders. At last, the angry noncom reluctantly released her, practically shoving her at Kinchloe. Anna immediately collapsed gratefully into the comfort of Kinchloe's arms.

"Anna...you have to tell us what happened. Please, I know it's hard, but this is important." Kinchloe spoke softly, first in German and then in English, until the young girl was sufficiently quieted. Walking her over to the cot that Saunders had only recently vacated, he sat her down and spoke soothingly to her, handing her a handkerchief. At last, Anna dabbed at her teary eyes and blew her nose. Sighing greatly, she calmed her nerves and began to talk.

She told them everything she could from the moment the Germans arrived. When she finished, she looked guiltily at Saunders.

"I am sorry about your friend, Doc. He was a good man, concerned only for the welfare of the other...Caje."

"What do you mean, '**_was_** a good man'?" Saunders demanded. "I thought you said he was taken prisoner, not killed."

"I-I am sorry," Anna shrugged. "I did not mean--" She swallowed. "I-I followed them...the soldiers--to where they took Doc." She began to cry again. "He was loaded onto a lorry...It was already carrying other Allied soldiers." She sniffed and dabbed her eyes. "I-I'm sorry...I overheard one of the SS guards say that the prisoners would probably be shot--" She shook her head, unable to go on.

"And Caje? What happened to Caje?" Saunders demanded.

Anna took a deep, calming breath before she answered. At last, she looked into Saunders' eyes, and shrugged. "I believe that he may still be back in the farmhouse. Doc refused to hide himself before he made sure that Caje was safe. I was downstairs, so I don't know where he might have hidden him…?" Her voice died out.

"And you didn't think to go back and check on him?" Saunders asked coldly.

Anna's eyes teared up again, and she shook her head. "_Es tut mir Leid_," she whispered.

"What?" Saunders asked, not understanding.

"She said she's sorry," Kinchloe said sharply, clearly upset with Saunders' demeanor. He turned to the girl, speaking in soothing tones. "That's okay, Anna. You did the right thing coming here." Standing, he scowled at Saunders and gave him a warning look. "I have to go up and inform the colonel. Try to be a gentleman until I get back, okay?"

Saunders did not bother to respond. Face set grimly, he made his way to the arms locker and took out the tommygun he had found earlier. Ignoring Kinchloe's "Just what do you think you're doing?" Saunders calmly dug up the necessary ammunition and stuffed it into his shirt. Opening the uniform locker, he dug up a field jacket and watch cap. Continuing to ignore Kinchloe, he donned both items and started down the emergency tunnel.

Kinchloe swore under his breath. "Swell...just swell." Making up his mind, he stuffed the pistol in the waistband of his pants. Turning to Anna he said, "Go upstairs and tell the colonel what you told us." Sighing, he jerked his chin in the direction that Saunders had taken. "Let 'im know I'm going after Sergeant York."

End of Part 7


	8. Chapter 8

_**Summary**: Caje arrives a decision; Doc bears witness to a tragedy._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "/Dialogue./" _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

**Copyright**: December 2005

**

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Date/Time: Unknown**

**Place: Unknown**

* * *

He walks through yet another bombed out village. His orders are to clear all the remaining buildings on this side of the street. Saunders takes the other side of the street. The rest of the squad has fanned out to other streets, other buildings. This is routine but dangerous work. Each door, each window a potential den of Kraut vipers. His responses are hair-trigger, jumpy. This is the third straight day of relentless battles and patrols. He needs sleep, but then, so does every other member of the squad.

He cautiously approaches the next building, a small shop with living quarters attached, his senses on full alert. Movement inside the building catches his eye. He fires and throws a grenade through an open window. He ducks in time to avoid being caught in his own explosion. The next instant, a shadow appears in the window. He fires automatically, grimly satisfied that his Garand hit its mark.

To his horror a civilian immerges from the doorway, staggering out into the open. Stunned, he realizes that he has killed a French civilian--an innocent. A sudden, savage cry is torn from the depths of his very soul, the pain almost too much to bear. The back of his mind registers someone next to him, offering quiet comfort and support. However, he is too far-gone to acknowledge Saunders' steadying presence….

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1700hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

The scene changed abruptly. Caje found himself in a small, confined space. He felt hot, cramped. This was real, not a dream. Momentarily, he had returned to the present. He looked around the dark interior of the wardrobe. The hour was late. He had to get out of this thing. He made a futile attempt to haul himself out, but fell back exhausted from the sudden exertion, his shoulder throbbing. He thought of his friends. What could have happened to them?

_Doc? Sarge? Where are you?_

Exhausted, he fought against the ever-present darkness that continued to lay claim to him. As he drifted in and out of consciousness, Caje was aware of an unrelenting thirst. He yearned for something cool to sooth his parched throat. As he did, the scene deliquesced to a small galley located in a houseboat.

**

* * *

Date/Time: Unknown**

**Place: Unknown**

* * *

He wonders how he got there, and then remembers his thirst. He finds a bottle of cognac and eagerly brings it to his lips. He tastes the bittersweet wetness as it sooths his dry throat. However, the cognac offers no comfort to the sick emptiness in his soul. Overwhelmed by guilt, he drops his head onto the table and cries, while silently recriminating his carelessness.

If only he had held back his trigger finger. If only he had waited a split second before opening fire. If only…

Wallowing in self-pity, he gulps down the remaining cognac in three long swallows. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he is about to throw the empty bottle across the tiny space, when a young, frightened voice brings him out of his self-imposed fugue.

_/Who are you? What are you doing here? Where's my father/_ The voice is feminine, her French a musical lilt in his ear.

Its owner, a dark-haired, soulful-eyed angel shocks him speechless. Her father? He killed her father? If he had felt an inconsolable loss before, now he sees only an endless chasm of pain and regret that will be impossible to bridge. He experiences a sense of falling in deeper and deeper, unable to latch onto his former self to safely anchor him.

He tries holding onto Micheline, but he knows in the back of his mind that she will not be able to give him the safety line he needs. She is too young, too frail, and in too much need herself. And what she needs--her father--he has taken from her. Every time he gazes into her wide, dark eyes, the overwhelming tidal waves of self-reproach engulf him yet again.

He is drowning in his guilt, and he knows it. He neglects his duties, goes AWOL, and even lets Saunders down. He is in so deep that he does know how to save himself.

As always, Saunders proves to be both a good friend and a wise leader.

_"Caje, will you **listen** to me? As long as we're together, you might get through this. But when it's over, this squad, the patrol, all of it, it's gonna -- it's gonna disappear. Everyone's gonna go his own way. And what happened to you here will be forgotten."_

_"Forgotten, Sarge? If anything happens to that girl--"_

_"If anything happens to that girl, you won't know about it. You'll see what we see, do as we do. No more, no less. Now you keep taking this personally, and you're gonna destroy yourself."_

In other words, the only chance they stand to come out of this thing whole, physically and emotionally, is by being there for each other. Not as crutches, though--Saunders would never stand for that. If the squad is to survive, each man has to pull his own weight when the chips are down.

At last, Caje understands what Saunders has been trying to tell him. The squad--collectively and individually--serves as a safety net upon which each man can rely when the need arises.…

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1830hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

Caje blinked his eyes open. He judged the numbness in his legs from sitting in the same cramped position for what must have been hours. He slowly moved his arms, attempting to regain some circulation. Carefully, he stretched his back and neck muscles. As quietly as possible, he pushed the clothing that hung overhead to one side.

Tired from his exertions, he took a moment's respite, regaining his strength. Closing his eyes, he recalled Saunders' promise that they would make it home together and Doc's promise that he would come back for him. He thought of the heavy burden he had been on his friends from the beginning. For the briefest second, he felt a twinge of the old guilt, but he determinedly tamped it down.

No, they had done what he would have done had their positions been reversed. They had willingly served as his safety net in his time of need. Now, he felt that something had gone wrong, and his friends needed him. "It's time I started pulling my weight around here," he murmured.

Reaching for a handhold, Caje gathered his legs underneath him and simultaneously pushed up with his leg muscles and pulled with his arms. Soon he was teetering on shaky legs, holding onto the wardrobe to keep from pitching forward. The world spun in a weird merry-go-round for a second longer. At last, it settled down long enough for Caje to chance climbing out.

Stumbling to the bed, Caje held onto the bedpost, gasping for breath. The room insisted on tilting and spinning crazily around him. Swallowing determinedly, Caje closed his eyes, allowing his equilibrium time to settle down. It was no wonder he was dizzy. He had been lying on his back for the better part of a week. Blinking his eyes open, he was relieved to see that the world had settled down.

He took a moment to get his bearings. He had been drifting in and out of consciousness for so long, he was not even sure where he was. He remembered that they were in Germany and that they had escaped from a POW transport train. He vaguely recalled being carried into a farmhouse, but everything was a bit fuzzy. There had been girl, he suddenly remembered, smiling at the memory. Of course, he would remember a girl. And Doc…he remembered Doc's presence clearly.

And Saunders? Caje closed his eyes in concentration, trying to remember. Try as he might, he had only flitting images of his squad leader: Saunders looking worried, Saunders giving him an encouraging smile or placing a warm hand on his uninjured shoulder. Most of all, he recalled Saunders' unwavering determination that they would get home. He felt Saunders' resolve within himself and knew that even absent, his friend's decisiveness was continuing to drive him.

Taking a cautionary step, he made his way to the doorway, pausing at the opening, listening for anything suspicious. Hearing only the sound of his labored breathing, Caje walked unsteadily to the steep stairway. Looking down into the darkness, he almost felt his resolve fail him. Closing his eyes and taking a deep, calming breath, Caje took hold of the banister and began his slow, unsteady descent.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1830hrs local**

**Hammelburg Road**

**En route to Gestapo HQs, Hammelburg**

* * *

Doc sat in tense silence, staring straight ahead, his midsection aching from an earlier encounter with a Kraut's rifle butt. The truck was traveling at a slow, but steady pace through the local Bavarian forest. It was part of a four-vehicle convoy with a staff car in the lead, followed by the truck Doc was in. In turn a second transport truck followed his, and a machine-gun mounted quarter-ton truck brought up the rear.

Doc wondered how many prisoners were in the other truck. This one was already filled to capacity, carrying well over eighteen prisoners and two very nervous, very trigger-happy Krauts. The truck was so overcrowded, in fact, that the soldiers were squeezed in shoulder to shoulder on the benches and the truck bed, with little or no breathing room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Doc tried to gauge his fellow prisoners' state of mind. So far, he had recognized most of the men from the POW train. The men had to have suffered from a severe psychological blow to be recaptured so soon after escaping. Most looked just as tense as he felt. Several had streaks of perspiration sliding down their cheeks. Only a couple dared meet his eyes but quickly averted them. The soldiers that really worried him, though, had vacant eyes, their minds apparently having been turned inward. They looked like they were lost within themselves.

The prisoners were not allowed to talk and were forced to keep their eyes straightforward. If one were caught sneaking a peak at a fellow prisoner, or trying to get an idea of what lay beyond the back canvas flap, he was likely to receive a rifle butt to the temple. That had already happened to a prisoner prior to Doc boarding the truck. Sadly, the soldier did not survive the incident and his body was summarily tossed out the back.

Doc worried about the other soldiers' condition. Besides the subtle signs of emotional trauma, Doc spotted a variety of minor and serious wounds when he first climbed onboard the truck. While he only had a cursory glance, he clearly saw one head wound, a shoulder wound, a wounded arm, and several minor cuts and abrasions. He had asked the guards if he could check on the more seriously wounded but had been rebuffed. Not to be denied, Doc had insisted on talking to the NCO in charge. Annoyed by his 'insolence,' the guard struck Doc in the solar plexus, which explained the current ache radiating from the medic's midsection.

Saunders' words when they were first captured came to him: _"Take it easy, Doc. Now's not the time."_ Doc nodded in agreement, knowing that Saunders was right. Still, he surreptitiously studied the other prisoners.

Abruptly, he heard the truck's gears protest as they were downshifted. Next, the vehicle began slowing down. The truck came to a halt, accompanied by the harsh squeal of brakes. The next instant, the guards jumped off the truck with loud shouts of, **_"Raus! Raus!"_** Standing back, the Krauts brandished their weapons, ordering the Allied prisoners to disembark.

Doc no sooner landed on the ground than he was simultaneously shoved and prodded with a rifle muzzle until he and the rest of the prisoners were formed into a semblance of a military formation. They stood in a small clearing in the woods, the late afternoon sun gamely dappling the trees that had been lying in deep shadows with soft, burnished gold. To Doc's agitation he saw that in addition to the gun mounted on the trail vehicle, they were covered by two heavily-manned machinegun nests.

As soon as the ragtag line of prisoners was more or less in line, an officer in the black uniform of the Gestapo strutted to the front. The collar insignia showed his rank as that of an **SS-Sturmbannführer, or Major. **His right arm had the requisite Nazi Swastika armband, while from his left breast pocket hung the Iron Cross 1st class, and proudly centered on his tie was the Golden Party Badge.

Doc could not help but wonder what the man had done to merit the awards.

Facing the men, the Gestapo officer glowered at them, his eyes in deep shadow from his cap's visor. He was much shorter than Doc would have believed. With the power the small man wielded, he should have been well over six feet, not closer to five and a half. Still, what the man lacked for in height, he made up in fear tactics.

He pointed at two prisoners at the farthest end. They were immediately dragged out of formation and brought before him. Looking them over contemptuously, he nodded at the guards who forced the prisoners to move toward a trench that had been previously dug. There, the guards prodded them onto a kneeling position.

Stepping to the side, the officer finally addressed the group of prisoners. "You have all been tried and found guilty of crimes against the Third Reich. As such, it is my duty to carry out the sentence." At his words a low growl that quickly increased in volume grew out of the prisoners standing in line. The men each took a threatening step forward, but were stopped by short, warning bursts from the machinegun emplacements.

The Gestapo major actually smiled. "The two men you see before you are not only guilty of crimes against the Reich, they are traitors to the Fatherland!"

At the major's words, Doc felt as if time had slowed down. He wanted to close his eyes, to look away, but he could not. Traitors to the Fatherland? What did he mean? Doc wondered. The soldiers' names suddenly came to him. Privates Schaefer and Mueller were both of German descent. Doc remembered their self-deprecating smiles and jokes about joining up in order to kick _Der Fuehrer_ out of their parents' homeland.

The German officer casually raised his closed left fist. Feeling an icy hand grip his lower intestines, Doc's eyes remained glued on the kneeling soldiers. A gentle breeze picked up at this moment, carrying Schaefer and Mueller's whispered prayers.

"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…" 

At the major's nod, the Krauts standing guard over the two kneeling prisoners stepped back. Meanwhile, Doc had taken up the soft refrain of Psalm 23.

_"He maketh me to lie down in green pastures…"_

Soon, the entire formation of helplessly watching prisoners joined in.

He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul…" 

Angered by the prisoners' show of support, the major abruptly brought his fist down, his face a contorted mask of rage. The quiet woods suddenly rang with a long, staccato burst of machinegun fire. The kneeling figures fell face forward into the black maw of the waiting trench.

The gunfire ceased just as abruptly as it began.

"**_Their_** fate shall also be **_yours_** if you attempt to escape--!" The officer's words seemed to fade into the background as for the briefest space in time, the still woods swelled with the murmured prayers from the remaining prisoners' broken voices.

"_Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…"_

"Should you fail to follow even the **_least_** order from a soldier of the Reich--!"

_"I will fear no evil: for thou art with me…"_

"You will be **_shot_** immediately--!"

_"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies…My cup runneth over."_

"I give this warning, not as your enemy, but as a friend--!"

_"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life..."_

"For we are all soldiers…comrades in arms."

_"And I will dwell in the house of the LORD for ever. "_

"Cooperate…tell us what we wish to know, and you will be richly rewarded." He looked around. "Well? What shall it be? Cooperation and reward? Or--!"

"Fritz, you can take your offer, and you can shove it where the sun don't shine!"

The major turned in the direction of the voice. "Who **_said_** that! I want to know who said it, or I will personally start shooting each man in line, one-by-one!"

At his words, a tall soldier proudly stepped forward. "**_I_** said it, Fritzy!"

"Take that man and **_shoot_** him!"

"_Jawohl, Herr Major_!" A guard sharply saluted the major and then moved to pull the soldier of formation.

Watching helplessly, Doc acted without thinking. Stepping forward out of line, he called out, "**_No_**! He didn't say it! **_I_** did!"

At Doc's words, the major's face began turning the same shade of magenta that he had exhibited earlier. "Arrest that man!"

Before the guards could react, yet another soldier stepped forward and cried out, "**_No_**! He didn't say it! **_I_** did!"

"**_No_**! **_I_** did!"

"**_No_**! It was **_me_**!"

"**_No! Me!"_**

Before long, the entire line of prisoners was crying out that he had been the instigator. The German guards looked bewildered by the unexpected turn of events until at last the sergeant of the guard turned to the Gestapo officer.

/"Major Hochstetter! What shall we do? Whom do we arrest/"

/"Dumkopf! Stand aside/" Hochstetter glared at the defiant row of prisoners. Nodding his head as if in approval, he grinned appreciatively at his audience, much like a rattlesnake must look before it strikes. "You are all very clever...and very brave. We shall see just how clever and brave once we are done with you."

His eyes abruptly resuming their previous crazed gleam, Hochstetter shouted at his men. "/Arrest them all! They are **_all_** enemies of the Reich!" Gesticulating violently, he pointed at the waiting trucks. "Load them all on the trucks! When we are done with them, they will beg to join their dead comrades./"

**End of Part 8**


	9. Chapter 9

_**Summary**: Kinchloe and Saunders head back to the farmhouse to find Caje; Hogan paces and begins to develop a plan._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _See Part 1._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "/Dialogue./" _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

**Copyright**: December 2005

**

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1845hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

Annoyed that Saunders had heretofore totally ignored him, Kinchloe was taken slightly aback when Saunders suddenly waved him down.

"Caje is **_my_** responsibility," the infantry sergeant hissed. "So we do things **_my_** way--got it?"

Kinchloe rolled his eyes. "I got it, Saunders. And just in case you forgot--" He plucked at his uniform shirt. "--We're supposed to be on the same team. Try to remember **_that_**, huh?" He did not mention that if it were not for him, Saunders would not have made it this far. But what's a 'little helping you not get captured quick-thinking diversion' among friends? Shaking his head, Kinchloe swore under his breath. "I knew I shoulda let the Krauts nab you."

Not bothering to reply, Saunders moved closer to the farmhouse. Reluctantly, Kinchloe followed. Settling next to Saunders, Kinchloe carefully studied its layout, on the lookout for anything suspicious. He felt a tap on his shoulders and turned to the younger man.

Saunders silently signaled that they would approach the farmhouse from two different directions. Saunders would go in through the front, Kinchloe from the back. Holding up the five fingers of his right hand, Saunders pointed at his watch, indicating that they would begin their approach in five minutes.

Kinchloe nodded. The shadows were even now lengthening, and it would be dark soon. He hoped for Saunders' sake that his wounded friend was safe. Kinchloe was not sure that the intense young man would be able to handle losing two men for whom he felt responsible. Moving off to take his position, Kinchloe wondered at the other man's fierce drive.

From his own perspective, Kinchloe was a rather laid-back kind of leader, as was Colonel Hogan. Either man rarely lost his temper or worried over situations they could do little or nothing about. And yet, the mission still managed to get accomplished--sometimes beyond even their wildest expectations.

Saunders, while obviously not what Kinchloe's mother might have called a 'nervous Nellie,' had a single-mindedness about him that was almost exhausting to watch. Of course, Kinchloe had witnessed that kind of concentrated focus from Hogan on more than one occasion. But with Hogan it had been different. Kinchloe never had a feeling in his gut that his commanding officer might do something thoughtlessly reckless that would get his men killed or foul up the mission.

Saunders, on the other hand, did not seem to care one way or the other that his foolish need to go after his friend might result in the whole operation being compromised. And yet, Kinchloe had to admit that Saunders' return trip to the farmhouse had been accomplished in a quick and efficient manner. The younger NCO had taken every necessary precaution to avoid the many enemy patrols that they had run across.

Checking his watch, Kinchloe saw that it was almost time to start his approach. As he waited, he thought about the one patrol that had almost stumbled upon them on the way out here. Luckily, Kinchloe recognized his favorite guard dog, Trudy. For some reason shortly upon his arrival at Stalag 13, Trudy had taken an instant liking to Kinchloe, licking his face and whimpering in delight whenever she could.

Naturally, when the German guards were around, Trudy would growl and slaver, snapping her teeth at the prisoners like the worst of them. But it was all an act. Inside she was a real pussycat and looked forward to the times that Kinchloe would sneak out of the barracks at night and bring her a special treat, or just spend a few minutes with her.

Spotting her, Kinchloe signaled her silently to lead the guards directly away from them. To help her, he threw a rock in the general direction he wanted her to go. The noise attracted the soldiers, who shouted to each other as they pointed toward the source of the sound. At the same time, Trudy went into her 'killer guard dog' routine. She growled and barked, pulling on her leash with all her might, baring her sharp teeth for good measure, which added just the right touch of realism to her whole act.

Kinchloe watched proudly as she successfully led the whole patrol away from them. Grinning he turned to Saunders, expecting...actually he did not know what he had expected from his grim young friend, but all he got was a view of Saunders' backside as the single-minded NCO continued on his way. Rolling his eyes, Kinchloe muttered, "You're welcome," under his breath.

Now, sitting just outside the farmhouse, Kinchloe could not help thinking about what might lie in wait inside. The place looked innocently peaceful. A light breeze gently rustled white lace curtains that hung from a small open window. Black smoke rose up from the lone chimney, softly curling in the gentle air currents and disappearing into the evening twilight.

It was just another farmhouse snuggled alongside the dark Bavarian forest. With its thatched roof and gingerbread gables, it could have stepped out of the pages of a Hans Christian Andersen tale. However, after almost two years of operating behind enemy lines, Kinchloe knew that looks could most definitely be deceiving.

Remembering the reason that he was there, waiting to enter a potentially dangerous building, Kinchloe again thought of Saunders, and the usually easy-going noncom glowered. "I should've let the Krauts grab him when I had the chance." Glancing at his watch, Kinchloe saw that it was time to proceed.

Silently emerging from the tree line that encircled the house, he moved quickly at a low crouch and was soon standing against the back door. Sidling toward the open window, he chanced a quick look inside. The glowing embers from the fireplace gave off just enough light to allow him to make out the still, shadowy forms of the kitchen table and chairs. A dark, open doorway lay beyond.

Satisfied that no one lay in wait immediately on the other side of the door, Kinchloe edged it open. Taking a tighter grip on his pistol, he noiselessly crossed the kitchen floor. The sounds of a violent struggle in the next room galvanized him into action. Rushing into the front room, he saw Saunders being held in a headlock from behind.

"Freeze!" Kinchloe shouted. He need not have bothered.

At that moment, Saunders reached behind him, grabbing his attacker by the collar. Without pausing, he bent forward from the waist up, and threw the shadowy figure over his head in a single smooth motion. Bending down calmly for his discarded Thompson, Saunders methodically aimed it at his fallen opponent.

Studying Saunders' face as the younger sergeant glared at the still form on the floor, Kinchloe felt a shiver shoot up his spine, for he suddenly found himself looking upon the cold, naked eyes of a killer. "You okay?" Kinchloe asked. Saunders did not reply, his eyes on his unconscious attacker. As Kinchloe watched him, he saw Saunders' expression slowly change to one of shock and regret.

"Caje?" Saunders rasped. Then more raggedly, the name torn from his heart, "**_Caje_**?" Dropping to his knees, the heretofore-angry veteran gently lifted the unconscious man's head and held it in his lap. "Caje? Caje…oh, God, I'm so sorry," he whispered desperately, fighting hard against tears that threatened to spill unchecked. "Caje, buddy, come on…wake up. Please…wake up…" With that Saunders took his friend in his arms and held him fiercely to his chest, sitting back on his heels.

It was obvious to Kinchloe that the battle-hardened noncom did not even realize that he was in the room. Suddenly embarrassed that he was witnessing a private moment, Kinchloe decided that he needed to stand guard outside and watch for any possible Kraut patrols. Turning on his heel, he left them alone.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/1945hrs local**

**Farmhouse (Local Underground Safe house) **

**10km west of Hammelburg**

* * *

Saunders sat back on his heels holding Caje close to him. Sniffing slightly, he wiped at his eyes with his sleeve. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to get his warring emotions under control. First, he abandoned his friends, thus allowing Doc to be captured; now he hurt the already injured Caje.

"Some friend, I am," he muttered. Swallowing, he cleared his throat, and then murmured softly, his voice growing more insistent as the minutes ticked by. "Caje…buddy, you've gotta wake up. Come on, Caje--"

"Sarge--?" The whispered name came out as little more than a soft breath, more felt than heard.

Excited, Saunders tenderly laid his friend back down, careful to keep Caje's head elevated on his lap. "Caje?" he called softly. "Are you with me, buddy? Caje?"

Caje's hand came up slowly, and to Saunders' surprised delight, enclosed the noncom's hand in an unexpectedly strong grip.

"Sarge…I knew you'd come back." Blinking his eyes open, Caje looked up at Saunders and gave him a weak grin. "Sorry for the ambush…thought you were a Kraut."

"S'okay," Saunders murmured.

"Doc?" Caje asked hopefully.

Saunders shook his head, and looking away, said roughly, "Captured."

Caje nodded. He vaguely recalled Doc's whispered warnings to stay quiet because the Krauts were in the area. More importantly, he remembered Doc's promise to come back. Squeezing Saunders' arm gently, Caje murmured with all the conviction he could muster, "He'll be back, Sarge. You'll see…Doc is going to be okay." As he spoke, Caje attempted to sit up.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing?" Saunders protested, trying to pull him back.

"I'm trying to stand on my own two feet, Sarge," Caje said unnecessarily. Holding Saunders' concerned gaze, he added, "Don't you think it's about time?"

Looking doubtful, Saunders said, "Caje…you're still hurt. And I didn't help matters by knocking you around. You need a doctor and rest and--"

Ignoring his friend, Caje struggled to his feet, fighting against an attack of vertigo. He waited until the dizzy spell had passed, and he felt that he was not going to fall flat on his face. Giving Saunders an encouraging grin, he offered him a hand up.

Nodding slowly, Saunders took the proffered hand and stood. The men stood thus, hands clasped for a moment longer, each taking in the measure of the other.

Saunders worried that Caje was still too weak to be out of bed and was pushing himself too soon.

Caje worried that Saunders looked like he had aged ten years since the day they were captured.

"You look like Hell!" The two spoke simultaneously, and at their words, broke into wide grins. These were soon replaced with low chuckles, and before long, laughter.

"Okay…but **_you_** like Hell a lot worse than I do!" Caje managed to say between chuckles.

Grinning, Saunders nodded in surrender. "You win." Then growing serious once again, he asked, "Sure you can walk, buddy?"

Caje shrugged. "I guess we'll see, won't we?"

"Let's go then." Saunders started for the door.

Following his squad leader, Caje could not help but wonder at his look of exhaustion. Saunders did indeed look like Hell, but Caje suspected it was a direct result of his continuous worry over the past few days. And what had he done to help his friend deal with their dangerous situation? Nothing, he glowered. He had only helped to make matters worse by getting himself wounded. Instead of being Saunders' right hand man, he had been his primary headache.

And Doc? Caje firmly put all thoughts of the medic in the backburner. As Saunders was so fond of saying, now was not the time!

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2245hrs local**

**Tunnel Under Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

"Where **_are_** they?"

Hogan had been continuously pacing the length of the radio room for the better part of an hour. He was also chain-smoking one _Lucky Strikes _after another, something he normally did not do. For the most part, Hogan did not smoke cigarettes, preferring instead to savor the occasional cigar that he lifted from Klink's private supply. The fact that Hogan had borrowed the pack from Carter only to promptly forget that the cigarettes were not his was a further indication of the strain that he was under.

"It's been over five hours, Colonel," Newkirk said, breaking into Hogan's troubled thoughts. "I say we go after them!" Seeing that Hogan was about to reject the idea again, Newkirk hurried on. "I know that if it were any of **_us_** out there, Kinch would come after us."

"Yeah...and if he did, I'd have **_him_** court-martialed, as well," Hogan snapped. He jabbed his forefinger in the direction of the RAF corporal. "You know as well as I do that the woods are lousy with Krauts right now. We chance going out there right now, we risk walking right into the Gestapo's hands."

"And that wouldn't do Kinch much good, huh, Colonel?" Carter asked, wide-eyed.

Newkirk gave the young sergeant a blistering look of disgust. "My, my...aren't we brilliant tonight, Andrew?"

"Knock it off, Newkirk," LeBeau growled. "You're not helping Kinch…." He paused, and then nodding meaningfully at Hogan added sotto voce, "**_Or_** the _colonel_."

Newkirk nodded. "Sorry, Andrew…Colonel."

Carter ducked his head, unsure of what he had done to merit an apology. Hogan, meanwhile, waved off the apology as unnecessary and resumed his pacing.

"So…we wait," Newkirk muttered. "Still."

He glanced at LeBeau and Carter who were sitting on the single bunk against the wall, Anna between them, and shrugged as if to say, "Hey, I tried." LeBeau nodded in acknowledgement, while Carter smiled uncertainly.

The small Frenchman sat to Anna's left, his arm protectively around her, while Carter sat stiffly on her right, a space for the sake of modesty between them. As Hogan paced, LeBeau whispered softly, encouragingly in her ear. Carter tried to smile and nod encouragement at her, but for the most part, he simply looked uncomfortable being in such close proximity to a girl.

Hogan, meanwhile, continued pacing and smoking. He knew that the Gestapo was behind the round up of Allied prisoners that Anna had reported. It was probably part of the overall dragnet they had set up in order to find the escaped prisoners from the transport train.

Remembering Hochstetter's words to Klink in his office, Hogan was certain the prisoners, including Saunders' medic friend, were to be added to the hostage population at the ammunition factory. Still…they first had to survive being interrogated at Gestapo headquarters. Flicking the latest cigarette butt on the tunnel floor, Hogan ground it out with a savage intensity, wishing that it were Hochstetter's head instead.

In addition, Ol' Bubblehead Hochstetter had mentioned using Stalag 13 as a temporary base for housing the prisoners. While Hogan would have loved to wait to get the men practically delivered into his hands, he knew that several of them might not survive the Gestapo's interrogation. No, if the prisoners were to have an even chance, Hogan and his men would have to somehow get them out.

But to break them out of Gestapo headquarters? That was something even he had never tried to do. It was a good way of getting **_everybody_**--the prisoners, himself and his men--killed or captured. And what if he or the others were captured and later broke under torture? Who else in the vast Underground network he led--men and women--would suffer the consequences?

Sighing, Hogan shook his head. He knew he had to get the men out before they were subjected to the Gestapo's interrogation methods. Somehow he had to walk in and have Hochstetter hand the Allied prisoners over to him. Simple.

Yeah, and the Easter bunny is gonna pay us all a visit this spring, too. Why were the simplest solutions always the most difficult to carry out? He grumbled.

Smiling suddenly, Hogan remembered the time he had actually convinced Hochstetter that the war was over in order to have him release three Underground leaders. That idea had been beautifully simple, too: He had to somehow get Hochstetter to release the prisoners of his own free will.

Of course, as usual the execution had been just a bit more complicated than that.

First, Hogan arranged to have Klink and Hochstetter listen to fake radio broadcasts announcing that the Allies and Germany had signed a peace treaty, ending the war. With phony newspaper headlines and spontaneous celebrations breaking out all over the camp, Hochstetter was eventually forced to believe the ruse. In fact, he was so completely taken in by the trick that in the end, he had even offered the Underground leaders the use of his personal staff car to return home.

Frowning, Hogan thought about the mad scramble to make his outlandish idea work. It had taken a combination of careful planning and an Academy Award-winning performance on his part to carry it out. The whole situation had been touch and go for a while, and Hogan had been actually sweating near the end. Anything could have gone wrong and blown the entire operation, but his famous luck had held out and the prisoners were released.

Taking out the crumpled cigarette packet, Hogan took out yet another cigarette. Tapping his breast pocket for his book of matches, he realized that he must have misplaced them again. Impatiently, he yanked one of the many burning torches from its wall sconce and used it in lieu of a match, nearly singeing his brows in the process.

Reflecting momentarily, Hogan murmured to himself, "The solution is simple: Get Hochstetter to release the prisoners of his own volition." He sighed. "But as always, it will require a complicated execution--which is yet to be determined."

Taking a long, drag from the fresh cigarette, Hogan restarted his pacing. Stopping in front of Anna, he glared at the young girl, irritated that she had not been able to give him any more information. "Anna, are you **_sure_** that Kinch didn't say anything else to you before he took off? **_Anything_** at all?"

Her face hidden behind a curtain of long, blonde hair, Anna did not look up from where she sat huddled, a picture of abject misery. She felt as if this whole episode were her fault. Worse, Colonel Hogan, usually so kind and gentle like her father, blamed her, too. "_Nein, Herr Oberst_," she whispered.

"And the SS soldiers…they made no mention of where they might be taking the prisoners?"

"_Nein_..." she whispered, "...only that they were to be shot." She paused momentarily, and then continued softly, her voice filled with pain and regret, "Colonel Hogan...I am so sorry. I wish I could have done more…I **_should_** have done more. I regret that I have failed you and the mission."

At the quiet formality of her words, Hogan's expression softened. The poor kid actually blames herself, he thought. And it's my fault, he admitted, feeling suddenly guilty. Yelling at her, pushing her around. You're a real heel, Colonel, Hogan silently chastised. Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he dropped it on the floor and used the act of stubbing it out as a means to mask his sudden discomfort.

Hogan did not believe that the Gestapo planned on shooting the soldiers--at least not yet. It was probably more of a scare tactic to keep the prisoners in line. Still…Saunders and his men had engineered a mass escape that made the Germans look bad. Hogan knew that the prisoners were indeed facing certain execution sooner or later.

Remembering his sharp tone with Anna, Hogan glanced first at Newkirk and then LeBeau, who studiously looked away, their expressions neutral. On the other hand, Carter who was incapable of hiding his true feelings gave Hogan a hurt-puppy look; however, the young sergeant's expression showed more disappointment than condemnation.

Squaring his shoulders, Hogan walked up to Anna and took her small chin in his hand, forcing her to look up at him.

"Anna, forgive me," he said quietly. "I didn't mean to yell at you. Whatever happens…you are not to blame. You did the right thing to come here."

Smiling a bit tremulously, Anna blinked back the tears that threatened and managed a soft, "_Danke,_" before she looked away. "If Father were still alive--" she began.

"--He would not have been able to do more than you did today," Hogan finished. "Your father would have been very proud of you, Anna. I know I am."

"Me, too, _cherie_," LeBeau murmured at her side, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek.

Looking at each of the soldiers sitting around her, Anna felt enveloped by their friendship. Each man gave her a warm look of comradeship.

Newkirk winked at her and called her "Luv."

Carter blushed, smiled and said, "You bet, boy…uh-I mean, ma'm."

While Baker, a young sergeant she hardly knew, gave her a warm grin and a thumb's up, a hand signal Anna had come to recognize as meaning "a job well done."

"Why don't you fellas catch some shuteye?" Hogan asked. "Roll call will come soon enough."

"Too soon if you ask me," a disembodied said from the shadowy interior of the emergency tunnel. "Then again, my mother always says that a man should be proud to stand up and be counted." Grinning, Kinchloe emerged from the darkness. He and Saunders were assisting a dark-haired, dark-eyed soldier who seemed on the verge of collapse.

"Kinch!" Hogan and others surrounded the group's Prodigal. However, Kinchloe waved them back as he and Saunders attempted to maneuver the barely conscious man to the bunk.

"Get Wilson," Kinchloe snapped, referring to the prisoners' only medic-in-residence. He glanced at Hogan. "I don't think he's in any danger, Colonel. He managed to keep up until about the last mile. After that, we had to give him a hand."

Hogan nodded. "You took a foolish risk, Kinch."

Kinchloe nodded. "Yes, sir." He offered no excuses or explanations. Hogan knew him too well. If the colonel deemed it necessary that he be court-martialed, then Kinchloe would gladly accept his punishment. He did what he had to, plain and simple.

Hogan nodded toward Saunders and the other man. Saunders was placing a wet cloth on the injured man's forehead, grumbling nonstop as he did so. "I knew you were still too weak…always pushing yourself too hard. You're nothing but a headache, pal. Don't think that I won't bring you up on charges when we get back. When I get done with you, Private Paul LeMay, they're gonna bust you so low, you'll need a telescope to look up to a new recruit--!"

"Shut up, Sarge," Caje murmured.

Saunders froze momentarily, then wrung the washcloth and again gently dabbed it on the wounded man's forehead. Grinning slightly, he said in mock severity, "And that's another thing, Caje…this new propensity for insubordination. You know it's not gonna over well with Lieutenant Hanley and Captain Jampel. They'll rake you over the coals. Oh, and don't forget the Sergeant Major--Avery is gonna chew you up and spit you out in little pieces."

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you, Sarge?" Caje asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Somebody's gotta keep you in line. It's just been my lousy luck that the stinking job's fallen to me."

As the two friends sparred verbally, Hogan ordered that two more bunks be set up, one next to Caje for Saunders, and another in a small cul-de-sac off a branch tunnel for Anna. LeBeau and Carter rounded up more blankets for their current 'guests' and before long their sleeping arrangements had been settled.

At last, Hogan indicated that it was time to hit the sack. "We'll need all the sleep we can get before this situation is over."

End of Part 9


	10. Chapter 10

_**Summary: **A quiet interlude before the gathering storm._

**_Acknowledgement:_** _I think it's time I reiterated my undying gratitude to DocII and her endless patience. When I say that her critical eye and comments have helped me make this a better story is an understatement._

_**Note**: The following denotes foreign dialogue, generally German: "/Dialogue./" _

_**Disclaimer**: See Part 1._

**Copyright**: December 2005

**

* * *

**

Escape to Stalag 13

**By Syl Francis**

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2245hrs local**

**Holding Cell, Gestapo HQs**

**Hammelburg, Germany**

* * *

Doc leaned, exhausted, against the cold, hard concrete wall. He and two other men sat in a holding cell, waiting for whatever fate the Gestapo intended for them. He thought back over the events of the past few hours.

The Allied prisoners had been brought to Gestapo Headquarters a few hours ago, still stunned from the cold-blooded murder of their comrades, and immediately hustled into a large holding tank. Then, before they had had a chance to catch their collective breath or regroup, they had been quickly and efficiently processed and moved into individual cells. At least, Doc and his two cellmates, Owens and Briggs, had been moved into this cell by themselves; however, he did not know where any of the others were, or even if any were still alive.

As he and the others had been shoved unceremoniously into the cell, Doc had had a brief glimpse of his new prison. The ceiling was thankfully high enough for him stand. The walls were cinder block, while the floor was made of rough, uneven stone. There were no furnishings of any kind, forcing him and his companions to sit or lie uncomfortably on the cold floor. Worse, in the corner stood a single bucket, its intended use obvious from the foul odors that reeked from it.

Before the door had been shut behind them, Owens had started yelling at the top of his lungs for his buddy Benson. The guards had put a stop to his shouts with a rifle butt to the solar plexus and a hard fist to the left temple. Owens had instantly crumpled to the floor, dazed.

The guards backed out of the cell then, shutting the heavy metal door with a resounding clang. Doc immediately knelt down next to Owens, but the injured soldier turned away, refusing any offer of help.

"Just leave me be," he whispered raggedly. "Leave me be."

"They'll kill us all, Doc," Briggs intoned, his voice dull. As he spoke, he slid down the wall to a sitting position. "They're gonna kill us all."

"You stop that kind of talk!" Doc said sharply. "You hear?"

Briggs shot him a lackluster glance. Shrugging, he looked away. "Don't matter anyhow. Better to be shot like Schaefer and Mueller, than left here to rot in this stinkin', black hole--"

Doc was on him before Briggs had a chance to finish his sentence, grabbing him by the lapels. "Now you listen to me, Briggs, and you listen good. Whatever happens we **_ain't_** giving up! As long as we're alive there's hope." He gave the despondent soldier a rough shake for added emphasis. "I don't know about you, pal, but I still got me a whole lot of living left to do."

A glimmer of something--hope, perhaps?--flickered in Briggs' eyes momentarily, but it was quickly gone again. Closing his eyes, he turned away, his body limp and unresponsive.

Disappointed, Doc released him and moved back toward Owens who lay curled in a fetal position, his back to the others. As soon as Doc touched him, Owens' entire body tensed.

"Owens, I need to see how bad you're hurt."

"I'm okay, Doc," Owens muttered. "I just want to be left alone."

"Are you sure you ain't hurt?" Doc asked.

Instead of answering Doc's question, Owens asked, "You think Benson's all right?"

Doc shrugged, and then realizing Owens could not see his response, said, "I'm sure he's fine, Owens. Or as well as can be expected."

"We've been buddies since basic, Doc," Owens said softly. "We've done everything together. Shared foxholes, rations, even our last pair of dry socks." At last, he turned to face Doc. "I'm closer to him than I am to my own brother back home."

Doc could not think of what to say. He thought of Caje and Saunders--and the rest of the squad. What Owens said was true, Doc realized. He, too, was closer to the men in his squad than to his own brothers back home.

"Why couldn't we at least have gotten to share the same cell?" Owens asked. "What if one or both of us gets killed, Doc? It ain't fair. We never even said goodbye."

"Don't you think it's a little early to start saying goodbye? You ain't dead yet!" Doc spoke a bit more sharply than he had intended. Still, his cellmates' pessimistic attitudes were beginning to wear thin. Exasperated and feeling unable to find words of comfort, Doc repeated what he had already told Briggs. "You gotta believe that we're gonna get out of here, Owens. You gotta believe that as long you can draw a breath, there's hope."

In answer, Owens again turned away to the wall. Sighing helplessly, Doc sat back on his heels. He stared at Owens' back for a moment longer and then turned to Briggs. Both men were pictures of despair. Doc could almost feel their hopelessness seeping into his own bones. Momentarily defeated, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes...

Images of Saunders and Caje invaded his thoughts. He worried about his friends, Caje especially. Had Saunders succeeded in extricating him safely from the farmhouse? For that matter, did Saunders know yet that he had been taken prisoner by the Gestapo? He thought about Anna and wondered if she had somehow managed to get word to the Sarge of his capture. He mulled over what he had said to Owens and Briggs--that as long as they lived they had hope.

Did he really believe that, he wondered? As if in answer, Doc could suddenly feel Saunders' steady presence standing next to him.

"Like I told Caje, Doc, we're all gonna make it back together." Saunders spoke softly, but earnestly. He ran a hand through his thick shock of blond hair, as always somehow managing to make it look worse than before. "Now, you've gotta believe that, Doc, 'cause, well--" Saunders shrugged and gave Doc a boyish grin. "--there's not much point in worrying yourself sick about the alternative…."

Doc jerked awake, momentarily lost in the dark. Where was he, he wondered? The next instant his memories returned with the same force as that of the cell door slamming shut. Blinking to clear the cobwebs, he sat up.

A weak tendril of light tantalized him from a small space under the heavy, iron door. It broke the otherwise total darkness, allowing him to make out the vague outlines of the other two men. At irregular intervals, the sharp ring of hobnailed boots approached the cell in slow, measured steps, and for a brief moment cast a shadow across the lower edge of the cell door.

Doc knew it was only the guard making his rounds, but somehow the deliberate steps outside his cell also served to remind him that he was at the mercy of a man who would not hesitate to kill just to prove a point. He recalled Mueller and Schaefer's bullet-ravaged bodies pitching uncontrollably forward and being swallowed by the open maw of the newly dug grave. He shivered suddenly and hugged himself.

Maybe Briggs and Owens were right, he thought darkly. He and the others were never going home. Hochstetter would see to that…

Again, Doc was suddenly hit by the eerie feeling that Saunders was in the cell with him, his piercing blue eyes penetrating his own in the darkness.

"That kind of thinking will get you killed, Doc." Saunders spoke with his usual, sharp intensity, using his **_Sarge_** voice, the one reserved for pouncing on slackers like Kirby or green soldiers who called him 'Sir' or cowards like Trenton who faked injuries to avoid combat. "I promised you and Caje that we'd all make it home together. You've gotta believe it, Doc!"

"But--"

"I'm not **_asking_** you, Doc! I'm **_telling_** you!" Saunders stood over him, his stance defiant and formidable. "We're gonna make home together! You _**got** _that, soldier?"

"I--yeah, Sarge, I got it…but--"

"No '**_buts_**,' Doc! And that's an order!"

Doc jerked awake for a second time that night. This time there was only a brief moment of disorientation that passed quickly. He must have fallen asleep once again.

"Sarge?" he called out, not expecting an answer. Somehow, Doc could still feel Saunders' presence near him, the sergeant's words echoing in his head. Taking a deep, shaking breath, Doc nodded at last. "I heard you, Sarge," he murmured. "We're gonna make it home together."

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2300hrs local**

**Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Hogan paced in his quarters.

He had sent the others to bed, but he knew that for him, it would be an exercise in futility. The need to devise a plan to rescue the Allied prisoners was gnawing away at his gut--and his conscience. He would not be able to sleep even if he tried.

The earlier reports from the Underground of finding the bound and bullet-riddled bodies of Allied prisoners had haunted his waking thoughts all day. That, coupled with his hours-long worry over Kinchloe's safety and his concern over the prisoners' fate, had eaten through most of his personal reserves.

Somehow, he knew that the lost souls of those he had been unable to save now lay in wait to assault him in his dreams. He ran a hand through his dark hair and paused to light yet another cigarette. Inhaling deeply, he let out a long stream of smoke through his nostrils. Opening the window shutters, he leaned out of the windowsill on his elbows and looked up at the night sky, here and there identifying stars that had been old friends since his boyhood.

Savoring the night's peacefulness, he smoked quietly, his face bathed by the silvery light of the full moon. _A bomber's moon_. He sighed a bit wistfully. _No sense wanting something you can't have, Colonel._ Besides, his mission was critical--with no other operation quite like it in the ETO--and, if he thought about it honestly, there were few men who would be able to do the job he was doing.

Gazing out upon the still compound, which lay awash in the moon's gossamer shroud, he thought about each of his men--their expertise and unique skills, their loyalty to him and the mission. _A fella couldn't ask for a better bunch of men_. Silently reflecting on the good he and his team had accomplished in the past two years, while operating behind enemy lines, Hogan felt the day's tensions slowly start to recede. Turning to look at his bunk, he considered sacking out. He knew that with the nonstop pace he had been setting, exhaustion would catch up to him, sooner rather than later.

As Hogan stared at his bunk, he suddenly saw the lifeless body of an American G.I. materialize out of thin air. The dead soldier lay facedown, his hands tied behind his back.

At the lurid sight, Hogan felt a cold shudder go through him. Suddenly, the intangible form sat up and stared coldly at him.

Hogan blinked, and the apparition was gone.

"I'm hallucinating," he muttered. _I must be even more tired than I thought_. He needed to go to sleep. "To sleep, perchance to dream--" he murmured." Thinking of the ghostly night visitors his dreams might further conjure, Hogan shook his head. "To dream…ay, there's the rub."He glared at the offending bunk. "Who **_needs_** sleep?"

No. He was not yet ready to face the mute, accusing eyes of the dead. He knew that the only way he would be able to put his demons to rest was to prevent their tragic fate from happening to the others.

And so, he paced.

And planned.

**

* * *

Saturday 5 AUG 1944/2300hrs local**

**Tunnel Under Barracks 2**

**LuftStalag 13**

* * *

Saunders lay in his bunk, smoking quietly. He watched the cigarette smoke curl silently upward, disappearing into the tunnel ceiling's shadowy recesses. One thought kept playing over and over in his mind like a broken record.

_Doc is in the hands of the Gestapo, and it's my fault_.

His friend and confidant was possibly being tortured even now for information he did not have. To offset his worry, Saunders wordlessly contemplated several possible reasons against such a probability.

First, Doc was only a private first class in the medical corps; therefore, he could not possibly have any information that would interest the Gestapo.

Of course, if the Third Reich's infamous secret police needed information on how to properly dispense aspirin, then Doc was their man. After all some of the directions were a bit misleading and could easily confuse anyone. For example, if the instructions called for two aspirins, Doc sometimes recommended that the patient take three instead, because two never really did the trick. Also, there was the whole 'washing your hands before you eat to prevent the spread of disease' campaign. And let's not forget the really important stuff like wearing a pair of clean socks every day.

Saunders took a deep drag from his cigarette, let it out slowly, and continued his mental count.

Second, he, Doc, Caje, and the other prisoners had been captured almost a week ago. Any 'vital' information they might have had was long obsolete.

No, the Gestapo knew that the escaped prisoners had no necessary information. Saunders had been the ranking NCO, and he was only a buck sergeant--the lowest of the low. Any information he had when captured would have been of an immediate nature and of limited tactical value. Since their capture, the situation had changed, rendering any information he might have had of no import.

He shook his head.

If the Gestapo did anything to hurt the prisoners, it would have nothing to do with any knowledge the prisoners might have, but rather as punishment for escaping en masse.

And it was all his fault.

Doc was in the Gestapo's hands, and it was all his fault.

Saunders ran a hand across his eyes. He knew that this type of self-flagellation was unproductive, but he could not help himself. If he had not planned and executed the escape in the first place, Doc would never have been turned over to the Gestapo. Instead, they would all be real cozy in a prisoner of war camp right now, sitting out the rest of the war.

The only question that remained was what did he plan to do about it? How was he going to get Doc back--?

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Caje's soft voice. "Sarge?"

"Yeah?"

"How are we gonna get Doc back?"

Saunders grinned in spite of himself. "I'm working on it."

"Oh." There was a short silence. "He's gonna be okay, Sarge. You'll see."

Saunders did not answer for a long while. Finally, he said softly, "I know. Now, go back to sleep, buddy. You heard the colonel. We'll need it before this is all over."

Rather than obeying his sergeant's orders like a good little private, Caje asked, "What do you think of them, Sarge? Colonel Hogan and the others, I mean."

"I'm not sure yet," Saunders said quietly. Then, knowing sleep was eluding him, he sat up and leaned back against the tunnel wall. He smoked in silence for a few minutes, reflecting on Hogan's unorthodox methods and had to swallow a wry chuckle. There was **_nothing_** ordinary about these people or their operation. In fact, Saunders would not doubt that he had fallen down a rabbit hole. "They've got quite a setup here."

"You're not kidding!" Caje agreed, awed. "Can you believe this place?"

"Sergeant Kinchloe seems like a pretty good soldier." Saunders recalled the trick with the guard dog and shook his head. Moreover, from what Saunders had observed of Kinchloe, the black sergeant had been a steady presence on the way to and from the farmhouse. His quick thinking with Trudy, the guard dog, had prevented their capture and possibly even saved their lives. Also, he had willingly gone along with whatever Saunders had asked of him--no, Saunders amended, _whatever I **demanded** of him--without once pulling rank_.

He then thought of the enigmatic Colonel Hogan. Saunders was still unsure of how to read the man. He recalled Hogan's demeanor before and after Hochstetter's visit.

One minute the officer acted like everyone's pal, smiling warmly, slapping everyone on the back, helping maintain everyone's spirits. The next, he became all business, a sudden coldness overtaking his formerly easy-going manner. The thoughts behind his dark eyes turned unreadable--no longer warm and friendly.

Instead, the mastermind behind this clandestine operation took over--cool, focused, dangerous--regarding and disregarding ideas at lightning speed.

While Hogan could not promise that Doc and the others would escape from the Gestapo unscathed, he did give Saunders his solemn pledge to do everything in his power to launch a rescue mission.

"Caje…you asked me what I thought of these guys?"

"Yeah?"

"I think we can trust them."

End of Part 10


End file.
